Beach Drive

We drive in his warm Audi sports-car beside the ocean. Outside, beyond the cold thin glass of the rain blurred window, the beach is sullen and wintry and wild. Neither of us speaks. There is too much to say … and so we have no idea where to begin.

Beyond the wide sloping sand-dunes, tawny-yellow and smudged grey-green with low wind-blown vegetation, the ocean is restless, white-capped and grey, merging on the horizon with the darker grey sky. The rain beats a cold tattoo on the car’s roof and the tension between us insinuates an icy impenetrable barrier. We continue along in this way, on the long black wet road, for what seems an eternity before he pulls off into a gravel parking lot. He shuts down the engine and stares ahead at the stormy sea.

We’re situated near to a harbour, the neat upright forest of masts bobbing to and fro in the rocky water. There are no houses here, only a rusty shed in an otherwise empty lot.

‘So, what now?’ he speaks softly, in his insular misery gazing through the rivers of water gushing down the windscreen.

He waits for me to answer. It would be so easy to say what he wants to hear: That we can sort out our problems. That we just need to try a little harder; find more time to be together. That would cheer him up, I know. That would make him happy in this moment. But then what? More years of being wrong for each other, trying to change but realising we shouldn’t need to.

Suddenly, he turns to me, his blue eyes blazing, intent, desperate: ‘Maybe we could get married.’

I can’t believe what he’s saying. The shock of his words makes the answer to our dilemma crystal clear:

‘No,’ I say, ‘It’s too late.’

‘But -’

‘We need to break up,’ I say as gently as I can. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to tell you like this.’

Tears stream down his face and I realise he knows I’m right. He has no argument and we’ve come to this gradually, inevitably, sadly. All endings are sad – a type of death – but they’re necessary for the start of anything new.

He starts the engine, swings the car into reverse, and roars back in the rain. The windscreen wipers cut an arch in the drops on the glass, ticking away what time we have left together.

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