I clink my red-and-white striped straw against the side of my half-empty margarita. My brain might just be fuzzy, but I remember it all so well. It's the kind of flashback you'd play over in the bath or in your head when you can't sleep at night.
It was a sweet summer day, and I was that ridiculous light pink pantsuit with the bulky belt. He had bright green eyes, a deep olive tan and a sleeveless blue shirt. I was laughing and fell out of the hammock and twisted my ankle. Then in the hospital waiting room...The eyes that stared at me now with a piercing quality like the sterile end of a needle.
From across the bar, he made his way over to me, just as young as he'd been 50 years ago. And I, the same. It didn't make sense.
"Hello, Tuck," I called out, barely recognizing my own soft voice. He smirked at the inside joke but gave me a wary look. I knew what he'd meant. I'd spent my entire life-lives?-creating fake identities and wandering around having lonely island beach flings.
"You look familiar," he said, needle-eyes shining. He's dressed professionally in a black suit, as if someone like us could actually be on a business trip. I felt my nails dig into my straw with uncertainty. Was this really a good thing? Did he actually not remember me? Had he woken up one morning and never lived past it just as I had? Had he lived hiding in his basements until he watched his own parents die-and then stole their money for a grand cruise to never come back from?
"Maybe we met a long time ago," I finally awkwardly blurt out. He looks at me. Oh, yeah. He definitely knows. "So you too, huh?" I joke, trying to ease the tension. That's the second worst joke I've made today, falling right behind Tuck Everlasting. It must be the margarita.
"Do you want to go on a walk and talk about this?"
"Okay." I slap a fiver on my table and walk out, slamming my broken flip-flop with every step. Flop. Flop. Flop. The ocean, a frothy navy blue like the Hope Diamond expands out from the sea-side bar, a picturesque image of beach towels and kids in plastic donuts and sand-covered noses running around. It should be perfect.
Once we were further along the beach, people thinned out more and more. The sandbar became smaller and a wooded area was thick with humidity and tall trees. I felt prepared to ask more questions. "!972?"
He nodded. "What's your name again?"
"Um, at the time...Cynthia Roberts. But now it's Margo Hopkins."
"I mean, your real name."
The sun is burning my skin. I wish I wore a long-sleeved shirt. "Oh, uh..." The name is so unfamiliar to me now, literally a past life. We've stopped walking now and are standing, shiny brown oxfords and broken flip-flops, in the damp edge of the sand. But it was one that once belonged to me, the name that I signed in cursive on my high school diploma and that my teachers called me and my grandma as she curled my hair into big hot rollers. "Bonnie."
Bonnie.
"Bonnie," he says. My throat hurts. My skin burns. Oh, no, not now. I can't cry right now.
"What's your-what's your name?"
He shakes his head. "I don't even remember."
"But you remember me. The broken ankle?"
"It's all deja-vu, Bonnie. But you're not the only one terminally, um, affected. I've been travelling...looking for others. I guess you could say I'm a hiring manager. We're all looking for ways to make a better life. I've got a friend here. He'll get you a new ID and take us back. We're based in London."
"So you're giving me a...business proposal?" No, no. Keep blinking. Can't cry. Bonnie.
"Not a proposal. Not a choice. We're timeless, Bonnie. But we're always out of time. I'll see you at four AM, on the dot, outside of the Dunkin'."
"Hey, you never know the people that hang outside of Dunkin'!" I laugh loudly, but it's more anguished than finding anything remotely funny. The Nameless Man just shakes his head as he walks away.
I try to focus on anything else on the long walk back to my humble beach abode-a vintage RV I’ve spent the past sixty years in, give or take. It’s not bad: in the back I have a mattress and a few blankets, my ever-changing wardrobe tucked in a purple suitcase besides it and a table, small fridge and bright blue couch. On the fridge I’ve hung unidentifiable portions of passed lives I’ve lived: post cards from small tropical towns, concert wristbands little gifts from last lovers never lasting more than a summer and a highlighted quote ripped out a page of Tuck Everlasting: “We just are, we just be, like rocks beside the road.” Taped around it are tiny bits of the only life that ever really mattered to me though, a life that once completely belonged to me: Bonnie. Five-year-old me smiled in a black-and-white camera back at the photo. I told people who stayed over it was a picture of my great aunt-one that quite resembled me in her youth. Another birthday card was taped next to it from my best friend, Mary: Happy 20th Birthday, Darling. Time To Look Into Nursing Homes! It was all so bittersweet now, the last birthday I’d ever had. I stared back at the fridge with sweaty palms. 4 AM couldn’t come sooner.
I woke up to my alarm drenched in sweat. I had barely slept and now had a slight headache. After chugging down three cups of cold black coffee which burned my throat with bitterness, I grabbed a dark windbreaker and wandered outside.
The beach was weirdly quiet except for the sounds of the waves as they crashed endlessly against the now cool sand and the smell of salt and sunscreen lingered in the air. The sand looked grey and lifeless in the pale moonlight. I saw the figure of The Nameless Man before he saw me. He was standing next to another tall lanky figure, both in full tuxedos with bright red ties. The parking lot was dark and empty except for a few bushes and a beat down green Ford which sits next to them parked crookedly next to the empty drive-through.
“Hi,” The Nameless Man said to me, and I snorted at the informality of his greeting. As I got closer, I got a strange promotion as he watched me. He leaned in giving me a kiss on the lips, hard. I felt his dull lips brush mine in a way that was once invigorating but now felt like a dream or perhaps a nightmare I was reliving. His skin was cold and lifeless as it brushed mine-like we were just two stone statues in the pose of lovers. I drew back, inhaling sharply. It wasn’t the '70s anymore. He didn’t have a miniature guitar or wide-framed sunglasses and we didn’t laugh in the way that could light up a room. We weren't hopeful. “
I’m sorry. I can’t do this, “ I told him. The other man watched us awkwardly.
“You did once,” he argued, but he sounded unsurprised of my response and not too sure of himself at any rate. The eyes pierced through me once again like a knife. “
You don’t get it. Let’s just go to England and hope something changes. I know your name, Ernest. I always knew.” His name echoed through the parking lot. Bullets fired. “We just are,” I whispered softer. “We just be.”
xdEcemberday t1_ixv83j6 wrote
Reply to [WP] You're an immortal who lives at a beach resort. You have many summer flings with mortals on getaways. One day you see someone you had a hot romantic night with 50 years ago. They look exactly the same. by kickypie
I clink my red-and-white striped straw against the side of my half-empty margarita. My brain might just be fuzzy, but I remember it all so well. It's the kind of flashback you'd play over in the bath or in your head when you can't sleep at night.
It was a sweet summer day, and I was that ridiculous light pink pantsuit with the bulky belt. He had bright green eyes, a deep olive tan and a sleeveless blue shirt. I was laughing and fell out of the hammock and twisted my ankle. Then in the hospital waiting room...The eyes that stared at me now with a piercing quality like the sterile end of a needle.
From across the bar, he made his way over to me, just as young as he'd been 50 years ago. And I, the same. It didn't make sense.
"Hello, Tuck," I called out, barely recognizing my own soft voice. He smirked at the inside joke but gave me a wary look. I knew what he'd meant. I'd spent my entire life-lives?-creating fake identities and wandering around having lonely island beach flings.
"You look familiar," he said, needle-eyes shining. He's dressed professionally in a black suit, as if someone like us could actually be on a business trip. I felt my nails dig into my straw with uncertainty. Was this really a good thing? Did he actually not remember me? Had he woken up one morning and never lived past it just as I had? Had he lived hiding in his basements until he watched his own parents die-and then stole their money for a grand cruise to never come back from?
"Maybe we met a long time ago," I finally awkwardly blurt out. He looks at me. Oh, yeah. He definitely knows. "So you too, huh?" I joke, trying to ease the tension. That's the second worst joke I've made today, falling right behind Tuck Everlasting. It must be the margarita.
"Do you want to go on a walk and talk about this?"
"Okay." I slap a fiver on my table and walk out, slamming my broken flip-flop with every step. Flop. Flop. Flop. The ocean, a frothy navy blue like the Hope Diamond expands out from the sea-side bar, a picturesque image of beach towels and kids in plastic donuts and sand-covered noses running around. It should be perfect.
Once we were further along the beach, people thinned out more and more. The sandbar became smaller and a wooded area was thick with humidity and tall trees. I felt prepared to ask more questions. "!972?"
He nodded. "What's your name again?"
"Um, at the time...Cynthia Roberts. But now it's Margo Hopkins."
"I mean, your real name."
The sun is burning my skin. I wish I wore a long-sleeved shirt. "Oh, uh..." The name is so unfamiliar to me now, literally a past life. We've stopped walking now and are standing, shiny brown oxfords and broken flip-flops, in the damp edge of the sand. But it was one that once belonged to me, the name that I signed in cursive on my high school diploma and that my teachers called me and my grandma as she curled my hair into big hot rollers. "Bonnie."
Bonnie.
"Bonnie," he says. My throat hurts. My skin burns. Oh, no, not now. I can't cry right now.
"What's your-what's your name?"
He shakes his head. "I don't even remember."
"But you remember me. The broken ankle?"
"It's all deja-vu, Bonnie. But you're not the only one terminally, um, affected. I've been travelling...looking for others. I guess you could say I'm a hiring manager. We're all looking for ways to make a better life. I've got a friend here. He'll get you a new ID and take us back. We're based in London."
"So you're giving me a...business proposal?" No, no. Keep blinking. Can't cry. Bonnie.
"Not a proposal. Not a choice. We're timeless, Bonnie. But we're always out of time. I'll see you at four AM, on the dot, outside of the Dunkin'."
"Hey, you never know the people that hang outside of Dunkin'!" I laugh loudly, but it's more anguished than finding anything remotely funny. The Nameless Man just shakes his head as he walks away.
I try to focus on anything else on the long walk back to my humble beach abode-a vintage RV I’ve spent the past sixty years in, give or take. It’s not bad: in the back I have a mattress and a few blankets, my ever-changing wardrobe tucked in a purple suitcase besides it and a table, small fridge and bright blue couch. On the fridge I’ve hung unidentifiable portions of passed lives I’ve lived: post cards from small tropical towns, concert wristbands little gifts from last lovers never lasting more than a summer and a highlighted quote ripped out a page of Tuck Everlasting: “We just are, we just be, like rocks beside the road.” Taped around it are tiny bits of the only life that ever really mattered to me though, a life that once completely belonged to me: Bonnie. Five-year-old me smiled in a black-and-white camera back at the photo. I told people who stayed over it was a picture of my great aunt-one that quite resembled me in her youth. Another birthday card was taped next to it from my best friend, Mary: Happy 20th Birthday, Darling. Time To Look Into Nursing Homes! It was all so bittersweet now, the last birthday I’d ever had. I stared back at the fridge with sweaty palms. 4 AM couldn’t come sooner.
I woke up to my alarm drenched in sweat. I had barely slept and now had a slight headache. After chugging down three cups of cold black coffee which burned my throat with bitterness, I grabbed a dark windbreaker and wandered outside.
The beach was weirdly quiet except for the sounds of the waves as they crashed endlessly against the now cool sand and the smell of salt and sunscreen lingered in the air. The sand looked grey and lifeless in the pale moonlight. I saw the figure of The Nameless Man before he saw me. He was standing next to another tall lanky figure, both in full tuxedos with bright red ties. The parking lot was dark and empty except for a few bushes and a beat down green Ford which sits next to them parked crookedly next to the empty drive-through.
“Hi,” The Nameless Man said to me, and I snorted at the informality of his greeting. As I got closer, I got a strange promotion as he watched me. He leaned in giving me a kiss on the lips, hard. I felt his dull lips brush mine in a way that was once invigorating but now felt like a dream or perhaps a nightmare I was reliving. His skin was cold and lifeless as it brushed mine-like we were just two stone statues in the pose of lovers. I drew back, inhaling sharply. It wasn’t the '70s anymore. He didn’t have a miniature guitar or wide-framed sunglasses and we didn’t laugh in the way that could light up a room. We weren't hopeful. “
I’m sorry. I can’t do this, “ I told him. The other man watched us awkwardly.
“You did once,” he argued, but he sounded unsurprised of my response and not too sure of himself at any rate. The eyes pierced through me once again like a knife. “
You don’t get it. Let’s just go to England and hope something changes. I know your name, Ernest. I always knew.” His name echoed through the parking lot. Bullets fired. “We just are,” I whispered softer. “We just be.”