We bought mood rings on the boardwalk. We were having our be-children-again-day together which was also, actually, our save-our-relationship-day.
— You'll see how much better we feel after this, you told me.
I grimaced and you said — See it's working already, I'm thinking of Grimace, that McDonald's character; wasn't he tall like you?
I wanted the sand to feel warm and romantic between my toes, but this was Santa Cruz, it felt like grit. My hair kept whipping around my face and catching in my teeth.
I pushed you, because that's how kids show their affection, and you fell and hurt your knee.
— My bad knee! You howled.
— It is working, I agreed. You sound like a howler monkey.
You didn't think it was funny. Now your knee really hurt.
— I knew something bad was going to happen, I said. Look how my mood ring is still black. My heart is like coal. I can't love anymore.
— Mine is light blue, what does it mean?
— You're craving the sky. You're birdlike, you're going to leave. That's what you're good at, leaving and cheating.
— Ouch, you said. I thought we were trying to work on this.
I shrugged and twisted my mood ring.
— I should have known when we got rejected from Dr. Phil that it was a sign, I said.
You caressed your knee like you once caressed my breasts, when they were the only ones in the world that mattered to you.
— Will you please just hold my hand?
— Hand holding can lead to other things. As kids, are we ready for other things?
You sighed like I was a little bit stupid and took mine into yours, and your fingers were warm and mine were cold, like always.
— We're going to make this work. Because look, now your mood ring is turning green. And mine is turning darker blue.
— Yeah, more like the ocean.
I pointed in case you hadn't noticed the enormous body of water. You had a way of missing the obvious.
— So are you a whale or a shark? I asked.
— Oh please, I'm such a whale.
— Yeah. A sperm whale. A lying, cheating sperm whale.
You dropped my hand.
— You can't let it go. You just can't.
I didn't even have to say: You're right. Kids can't always explain their feelings. The foamy lip of the water teasing the shore made me free associate.
— They call it memory foam...I started to say.
You looked confused. — What? What are you saying now? You aren't making sense.
You stared out at the ocean, though I suspect you didn't really see it, then walked away from me with an exaggerated limp, not too far, because you wanted me to make sense.
— Our bed is made out of Swedish memory foam, I said. But it's going to forget you.
— I forgot, kids are cruel, you said. This was a bad idea.
And for once I did not disagree.