The city slows down around them, their seats on the park bench seemingly exempt from the passing of time. Hands intertwined, hers manicured and slender, his broad and rough. The muggy mid-summer air sits thickly around them, buzzing quietly with the sound of crickets chirping.

The faraway sound of inter-city traffic still permeates the air, bringing shouts of “Taxi!” and “Get out of the way!” None of the clamor seems to reach them. They were in a bubble of peace, calm and cool. Nothing could touch them here; not responsibility, not hate, not time.

She rests her head on his shoulder, sighing softly. He, in turn, rests his head on hers, feeling her hair tickle his cheek. The sun is falling lower, the sky turning a shade of lilac, the area around the sun a bright orange.

“I need to go home soon.” His voice breaks their silence, reverberating in humid air. She sighs again, nodding against his shoulder and lifting her head, cracking her neck. She looks away from him, now, staring out at the park, with its small pond and flower-dotted, rolling hills.

He stands, and kisses her gently, before turning away, ambling towards the exit of the park. She waits until he is only a speck on the horizon, before standing and leaving too.

--

They go to the beach a week into August. The tourism is winding down, the beet-red sunburned skin of tourists less of a common sight.

The sun is hot on her back and the sand is sizzling beneath her feet, making her hop from one foot to the other to avoid any burns. He walks in his flip flops, getting the sand in between his feet and the shoes. He takes them off and curses, trying to shake the gritty substance off while also hopping foot to foot.

He’s barely set down the towel and lain upon it before she’s begging him to come splash around with her and enjoy the weather, a perfect mix of not too hot and not too windy. He sighs, smiling, before getting up. She squeals, and runs for the waves.

When she finally reaches the actual water, she plants her feet and digs her toes into the wet, cool, darker sand. It squeezes pleasantly around her feet, a satisfying sensation. He catches up to her, and lays his arm around her waist, pulling her close.

She leans back against him, his weight warm and strong behind her, and enjoys the view.

It was the last good day.

--

She swallows water. It’s not enough. She swallows words. It’s not enough. She swallows her whole self. It’s not enough.

And maybe it was good at first, and it meant something, but now it’s just thoughts unsaid and hopes unspoken, and it never made sense, none of the mess they had made.

--

His house. The carpet floor of his basement. The ceiling greets her like the bars of a prison cell.

“Please come with me to Ithaca.”

She remembers the last time he went away without her. It didn’t end well.

“I’ll miss you too much, please come.”

“You said that the last time you went away.” She remarks. It was someplace in Mexico, she thinks. Someplace warm year-round. Where girls in beautiful clothes sip illegal martinis and smile flirtingly at anyone who looks at them twice.

“Don’t bring this up now. It’s not the right time.”

“Then when is it the right time?” She asks, turning her face to him, the carpet scratching roughly at her cheek.

“That girl was a mistake. I missed you too much and I…fell off the wagon.”

“If you miss someone, that means you care about them. And don’t cheat on them.”

“I don’t know if we can stay together if you stay here.”

And there it is. The snake, come out to play its manipulation game; she would know, she plays the game just as well.

--

They’re on their bench again.

“I have to leave for Ithaca next week.” She nods. She knows this is a truth.

“I’ll call you.” She nods. She knows this is a lie.

“We can stay together.” She nods. She knows this is somewhere in between, neither truth nor lie. It’s something odd, unnamable. She can’t put her finger on it.

--

She’s lying spread-eagled on top of her bed, the fan whirring quietly. She watches it, watching it go around in circles, endlessly, wishing that time wasn’t the same; wishing that a week didn’t pass in the blink of an eye, a month in a yawn, a summer in lingering glance.

She scratches at her thigh, the frayed hem of the shorts. There is a kind of melancholic peacefulness about it, the steady drone of the fan and the background noise of music, the photos and notes on scraps of paper surrounding her. They remain mostly in pieces, bits of something, of nothing.

He left for Ithaca the day before. She had seen him off with a smile, pretending everything was alright and she didn’t feel heartbroken, not at all.

She had pulled him into one last hug, whispering in his ear, “We can’t do this.” He’d nodded.

It was a rather anti-climatic way to end the whole thing. The writer in her opposes it. The romantic in her wails.

Life works out that way, she supposes. She has to have the relationships that don’t work before she could have the ones that she kept her entire life.

She has to move to her dorm, a bit further in the city, tomorrow. She hasn’t begun packing yet. Her mother will have a fright, she thinks with a wry smile.

But she heaves herself off the bed, and drags her old suitcase out of her closet. Tomorrow was the first day of the rest of her life. She’d better start getting ready.