Impurities.

I sat at the waters edge. The waves of the gulf coast rolling over my
legs, slowly sinking into the wet sand. I considered tiny sea shells
in my hands, asking them without words where they came from and how
was Mexico and how long did it take them to get here. A half mile down
the beach precocious children played, forgotten by parents passed out
in umbrella covered hotel chairs, empty plastic cups surrounding them
in a wake of holiday season release. Couples of a certain age strode
behind me, seemingly uncomfortable with the free time life had
generously allotted them, all the while kicking up damp sand with
orthopedic tennis shoes. I fixed my gaze on the point where sky meets
sea and I wondered how anyone could find the vastness of an ocean
calming or comforting.

My phone began to vibrate from within the confines a the beach bag, my
hand clumsily felt for it. I withdrew it to find the most unexpected
message. "I'm in town until the 3rd, want to get dinner?". I was
stunned. It was from the other boy, the architect, the temporary
resident of China. As I contemplated a reply, the billionaire sat down
beside me, asking me how long I'd been down here hiding. I shoved the
phone deep inside the bag and turned towards him and smiled, "Oh, just
a little while", I said with some detachment. Some part of me thinks,
the paranoid part, he knew what had just happened, though there would
be no way he could have.

For the remainder of the day I went through the motions, listlessly
following his parents through a museum, listening to their
ill-informed judgments of contemporary art. At night, behind the
closed door of a designer decorated bedroom, I contemplated a return
reply to the earlier message, finding the difficulty of producing a
text message insurmountable but finally composing a reply that somehow
said yes. I selected send and felt that girlish giddy rush like I did
when delivering grade school valentine's to cute boys.

The night passed mostly sleepless as I contemplated what it would be
like to sit across the table from the boy I thought I loved so much. I
hadn't the slightest clue what we would talk about or what I could
even say about my life, especially knowing that he'd find my most
recent choices to be insipid.I began to regret ever even sending a
reply to his message. The week went on and my tan deepened.

But when it came to January 3rd I couldn't bring myself to call. I'm
not so sure what stopped me, if it were some sense of betrayal or the
fear that I might still love the idea of him.