Calhoun Beach
Three
Belle talked for a while on her Nokia, from time to time glancing at where I was, perhaps to check whether or not I had left. Every time she turned to me, I smiled and nodded as if to say, "go on, talk to whoever is on the other line. Go on, I promise I won't stab myself when you're not looking at me."
She talked for quite a while -- fifteen minutes, if my estimation skills serve me -- and when she finally got off the phone and returned to the spot we were occupying, the sun was just about ready to retire.
She stuffed her Nokia in her bag and said, "It was.... a friend." The way she said that made it sound like she was lying. I wasn't too sure if she wasn't, and that made me feel like a bad boyfriend. I mean, weren't boyfriends supposed to trust their girlfriends wholly?
"C'mon.. sit down. We should talk for a while," I urged her.
She shook her head. "You know what, I think I'll just go home now."
I raised my eyebrow. And not that, "you have gotta be kidding me" funny raised-eyebrow look, but with that "what the f*ck's up with you?" look.
"What?" She asked. "Can't I just want to go home?"
I got up, dusted the sand from my Levis, and started tying my Chucks' shoelaces. "Belle, are you sure there's nothing you want to tell me?"
"Mark, I'm sure," she said with a tone that wanted me to ask nothing more about the whole thing.
* * *
We returned to Vicky's, withdrew our bikes, and started for home, about an hour too early. We spoke little along the way, which was another thing I found weird about her -- she just wasn't the Belle Grisham I patiently courted four months prior.
We both lived in the town's Kingsley district, one of the better-off parts of town, and Belle's house was the biggest and grandest in the neighborhood. Whenever we could bike home together -- which was most days -- we'd turn right from Rutherford Avenue onto Rike Road, and then left on Harper Lane.
I got off my bike, and she got off hers. "Belle, are you sure there's nothing wrong?" I asked one more time.
"Mark, how many times do I have to tell you. Everything's just fine." She kissed me on the cheek, wished me good night, and went to park her bike by the garage. She then entered the house without so much as waving to me.
I stood there for quite some time, contemplating. Was my relationship on a downward spiral, or was this just one of those bumps on the road all couples get to encounter? I shook my head, and biked home miserably, hoping -- just hoping -- that the heavens would send help.
She talked for quite a while -- fifteen minutes, if my estimation skills serve me -- and when she finally got off the phone and returned to the spot we were occupying, the sun was just about ready to retire.
She stuffed her Nokia in her bag and said, "It was.... a friend." The way she said that made it sound like she was lying. I wasn't too sure if she wasn't, and that made me feel like a bad boyfriend. I mean, weren't boyfriends supposed to trust their girlfriends wholly?
"C'mon.. sit down. We should talk for a while," I urged her.
She shook her head. "You know what, I think I'll just go home now."
I raised my eyebrow. And not that, "you have gotta be kidding me" funny raised-eyebrow look, but with that "what the f*ck's up with you?" look.
"What?" She asked. "Can't I just want to go home?"
I got up, dusted the sand from my Levis, and started tying my Chucks' shoelaces. "Belle, are you sure there's nothing you want to tell me?"
"Mark, I'm sure," she said with a tone that wanted me to ask nothing more about the whole thing.
* * *
We returned to Vicky's, withdrew our bikes, and started for home, about an hour too early. We spoke little along the way, which was another thing I found weird about her -- she just wasn't the Belle Grisham I patiently courted four months prior.
We both lived in the town's Kingsley district, one of the better-off parts of town, and Belle's house was the biggest and grandest in the neighborhood. Whenever we could bike home together -- which was most days -- we'd turn right from Rutherford Avenue onto Rike Road, and then left on Harper Lane.
I got off my bike, and she got off hers. "Belle, are you sure there's nothing wrong?" I asked one more time.
"Mark, how many times do I have to tell you. Everything's just fine." She kissed me on the cheek, wished me good night, and went to park her bike by the garage. She then entered the house without so much as waving to me.
I stood there for quite some time, contemplating. Was my relationship on a downward spiral, or was this just one of those bumps on the road all couples get to encounter? I shook my head, and biked home miserably, hoping -- just hoping -- that the heavens would send help.