Well Balanced

"This is it, isn't it?" sighs Darian, "We're done? I mean, where do we even go after this?"

A pang runs through my chest that speaks to a younger me that I thought was dead. I am in a living room with a cream colored couch that has an old coffee stain on the arm. My bags are by the door and a car is waiting outside. The anger is just gone by now. There's a defeated exasperation that both our time has been wasted. My arm still shows deep red scratches that were intended for my neck. Those words hang heavy on my lips.

Then, I realize I am actually on a beach, eyes half closed under a set of dark sunglasses, all of me slowly browning into a more attractive shade. I did not say those words and when I did, there was much less of a question in them. There's a cold aluminum can to my lips that has just enough alcohol inside to require an ID. Granted, the clerk I purchased said can from did not check, but I am used to that. I am in a set of tight board shorts caked in fine sand. The ocean stretches out in front of us. We share our moment with an assorted crowd, toddlers to the elderly, where everyone is having a good time.

I wait because I do not believe that Darian has the emotional fortitude to break up with me without bursting into tears. I don't either, but he doesn't need to know that.

"Like," Darian finally continues, "I'm not trying BMX. I don't think either one of us would be good at rollerblading. Skating, snowboarding, and now surfing. What else is there, Ty?

"Have you ever considered polo?" I say with a sigh of relief.

"No. Horses freak me out. They're too big. Parkour. We're doing parkour next."

"I'm not doing parkour. You're not doing parkour. We are just going to sit on this beach and wait for the tide to turn so that we can surf. We will enjoy it. It will be fun."

"Can you even have fun without a camera?"

I stoop to his level with a soft glare he can't perceived behind my tinted glasses. He's smiling because that's all he can do. Sandy blonde hair, blending into the beach, freckling instead of evenly tanning, he just sits on his towel, knees to his chest and pressing his back against a rented surfboard. He's filled out a bit since we've started this whole affair, even rounded out in a few places, but heavier in the best way. I have made sure that he is the best version of himself that I can make and he appreciates it. He sits there like a playful cat, eager to bat at me again so he gets another reaction.

"I can think of some ways," I say after another sip, "but only if you take off your pants first."

He blushes and shimmies, endlessly pleased with the fact that I just want to take him, right here right now. His own tight shorts aren't helping, and the way his over-sized shirt shows off his collarbone is even worse. I know that my bare chest is doing the exact same thing to him.

"I mean," he mutters, "I'd be down for that."

"No," I say, "No you wouldn't. You think you would, but look at this."

I lean a bit and grasp a handful of sand. I hold it out to him and make sure he knows every single grain.

"Imagine this," I say, "Every grain. Right on your dick. Rubbing into every inch."

He considers and gently pokes at my palm, as if I am lying about how this would feel. I do not lie. I just state the sage truth of the world and hold it to him for his own benefit.

"Yeah," he says, "Fine. No beach sex, unless we somehow can remove the sand, which would also remove the beach. Ocean sex?"

"That I can't comment on. It might be a good idea, but I also imagine the fish would consider it rude."

"We do want to be nice to the fish. Especially considering I plan to eat some of them tonight. Don't want sex mixing with food in that way."

"Most of this stuff is probably flown in anyway. I think that's not a big worry."

"Still. I'd be a bit annoyed if some jellyfish barged in our room and started fucking now that I think about it. So no beach sex, no ocean sex, just regular old boring hotel room sex."

"Maybe some mile high club stuff on our flight back if I feel like it."

That perks up his dirty little mind. Everyone wants that. Everyone needs that. I doubt we'll actually go through with it, but I've been wrong before. My can is empty and I make the requites show of crushing the walls into a mangled heap with nothing but a thought. I carefully place it in our pack out bag so that the fish are even more undisturbed. They deserve a clean home, just as we do.

The wind shifts. I think I pick up on it first, but Darian isn't far behind. We've attuned ourselves to the rhythm of the world, whether it's concrete or ice or the unending churn of the waves. There is a flow the world, a dance of pressure and heat, always in flux. It responds to a gentle hand, a loving hand, an acknowledgment there is no dominance of the other. We all spin around the sun and play. We are wooden blocks and model trains, no stated purpose other than the general suggestion of our arrangement. Even then, the ones that want a more concrete game, the nonsense of teams and scores and referees, demand a structure of lies. I help Darian up and brush the sand from my ass. His fumbles a bit with the board. It will be fine. He's had the lessons and I'm just there to make sure he doesn't drown.

Together, we slowly march towards the water, past a brother and sister making a crumbling sand castle. The tide's coming in to blot out their hard work with a pressed thumb. We all come to that end. I work out my back and shoulders and that end's coming to me too. Not Darian. He's going to live forever on an adrenaline rush.

He hits the water first and freezes. All of him tenses and I watch the recoil from the sea, hissing teeth and I join him. I do the same. The sea is cold and terrible and we are not made for this type of existence. I soldier on, feel the water crawl to my thighs and I raise my arms. I am brave. I am strong. Darian is a coward who does not actually want to do anything even now. But I am farther out than him and he wants to come to me. He is brave. I am foolish. We come up to our collective waists and we can ignore the effects of shrinkage because we are slowly adjusting.

"This sucks," Darian whines, "I hate this. Can we go back to the hotel? We can just do this in the bathtub."

"If you want to spend your vacation cooped up in a hotel room, that's on you," I say, "I want to watch you surf."

He pouts but we keep the march out to our chests. The waves are coming harder now and I brace. Cold, endless cold and it is perfect. I feel it down to my bones and I am lave. It is a cold bit of pain, but invigorating, much better than the slowly drying bake of the sun. I feel all of ti crash against me.

Darian's struggling. It takes a bit, but I get him on the board and he starts paddling out. The water can't reach him and he is slowly drying out again.

We pass the breaking point and I tread water, hanging together at the top of the ocean. There's a world beneath us and we can't glimpse it.

"You doing ok?" I ask. Darian paddles up and scans the horizon. He sees the curve and decides that he should be with me.

"Yeah," he says, "God, it's cold though. Is that normal?"

"Probably. I imagine that some parts are warmer than others. I don't know. I trust cold water more than warm water, all things considered. Warm water is never a good sign."

He giggles because we are all children in grown up bodies. I turn my own attention to the water. Rise and fall, nothing breaking, just the breath of the world and its continued urge to exist beyond us. We gently bob like seabirds.

"I love you," Darian says, completely unprompted,

"Yeah and?" I ask.

He splashes me. Frankly, I deserve it. He also deserved what I gave because that little breakup stunt he pulled on dry land.

"You're such a dick," he says. I can hear the smile at the edges of the words though. There is no lie in anything between us.

I do not splash him back. I take my punishment on the chin.

"I love you too," I say.

"Fucking knew it," mutters Darian. I let him think the wind took it all away so that I don't have to respond. I am more concerned with the bit of swell heading out way.

Raw little kid excitement starts rising in my chest. There's still enough space for that. That's Darian's job. It's really the reason I've decided to keep him around. With his erratic thrashing, he spreads open my rib cage and soothes away my black heart. Right now, he's drumming against his board and goading me on. I paddle around and assume the position. Darian joins me. We wait.

For once in our shared lives, I'm better at him than something. I catch the wave just a hair quicker, come to my feet just a little bit smoother, don't wobble just as much as the water slowly rises underneath us. On my back, the spray pushes me and I keep low. I am a bullet in the rifle of the wold. Wind around me, sun above me, water beneath me, sand ahead of me, all of that combine to the moment and the will. A shift and I rise. Another shift and I fall. The bullets spins and falls along a set trajectory set upon us all by a spark no one struck. Then I hear a splash behind me and that brings me back. I turn and find myself alone.

The wave peters out and I am left alone in the water. Someone tosses a beachball. Someone cracks a beer. A family takes a toddler down to a tidal pool to play with the crabs. Darian's gone, just gone. My heart quickens and my eyes go wide. The water is deep and dark and cold. The world is ending and the one bit of light is about to go out.

Then a matted head of blonde hair breaks the surface, sputtering icy brine and scrambling to a board. He's laughing. He's laughing as the world has failed to kill him once again. I slowly drop and angle myself over as comes back to his perch.

"You ok?" I ask.

"Fine," he sighs, "I'm fine. Met a shark. Saw a hot mermaid. Or I just hit my head a little bit. I don't think I like surfing."

"Don't be like that. We've finally found something where you have to try."

"Then how come you get to be so good at it?"

"Because sometimes the world is nice and everything is exactly as it should be. Come on. Unless you want to go for a full swap and pull a camera out of your ass."

"I don't think a camera would fit in there."

"Well, I guess we know what we're doing tonight."

He laughs again and he starts attacking the world again. It's an empty threat anyway. I have too much money wasted on those to waste them again.

---

The night is hot. Not quite as hot as the day, but the crowd is thicker and that just makes it worse. The beach was open. The town is blocked off with bodies and buildings. All that heat has nowhere to go but back into us as we mill around a sputtering fountain with charmingly cracked tiles. A full band sits in their under the table assigned spot and serenades us all with heartache and passion. Darian squeezes my hand and I squeeze back. The song ends and the gathered tourists clap. A wave of the more generous push forward to toss loose bills and coins into an open guitar case.

I fumble with my wallet and Darian snatches it from me before I can do anything responsible. He rummages around until he satisfied and hands ti back to me, slightly lighter. And before I can stop him, he's off, nudging the crowd aside so he can slip through. I miss him. Even for this short little jaunt, I miss him. A hole by my side, a lopsided weight slowly caving away at my hips. I can still see him. There's no threat. He bends right at the hips and causally tosses the bills in. One of the musicians gives a jaunty tip of the hat and sends him on his way. He's smiling on his way back.

Something in my pocket buzzes at me and all my attention is pulled from the moment.

"Where are you guys," says the angry little screen.

"On our way," I reply and shove it home.

"Isidro's getting impatient," I sigh as I pull Darian along out of the crowd.

"Did you tell him we're on vacation?" he says.

"No. Because technically we're not. It is his dime and that means he's a client. Clients are naturally cranky and always annoying."

"Am I a client? You take pictures of me."

"No. You're a subject. The magazine is usually the client. But I'm also a partner on that, so I'm really the client."

"You started a magazine just to take pictures of me? That's kind of sweet, but also kind of creepy."

I nudge him along without bothering to correct him. He deserves the attention and I make sure that he knows that his physicality is appreciated with a good hard grip on his ass. He yelps and presses into me and makes sure that he wants to drag me to the alley and show his adoration. He doesn't. We are late for dinner and we're both starving.

Slowly, the world around us changes. The streets get a bit more cracked. The buildings have peeling paint. The world is more lived without a care for the facade for the traveling masses. Just as bright, just as lively, but the language of life shifts. Even as the sun sets, a quartet of kids are kicking a ball back and forth across the street. It crosses some invisible line and the score changes. No one is keeping track. It doesn't matter. Endless and eternal, movement for movement's sake and nothing more.

The ball escapes and finds its way to me. They stare at me and Darian. He waves and I do my best to kick the ball back as gently as I can. The kids wave us on and we take a corner. My phone buzzes again and I don't want to check. Isidro can wait. We still have a block to go and that will take us like 10 seconds at most. I can even see the sign from here. The kids go back to their game and we are forgotten. They rapid fire the ball and Darian pulls me along.

The door to the restaurant opens and a man steps out, gazing down the road. A thin mustache cuts over his lip before bleeding into a thin layer of stubble. I glimpse a snaking tattoo under his collar.

"Hi Izzy," Darian calls with a full body wave. The snake turns away from us and a thin pair of glasses greets us from above the mustache.

"Where the hell have you two been," Isidro says with a light accent.

"Having fun," I say, "Didn't think we get any of that here, so we had to stock up."

Isidro just rolls his eyes and gallantly holds the door open for us. Or at least, I thought so. Darian was allowed entry no problem. The door closes as soon as I try to cross the threshold. My almost bruised nose is fine as I enter, catching the scent of a really good meal.

It's a simple restaurant. It's been in his family for a few generations and he's seen no reason to hand it off, even when he decided that he'd be better on a skateboard and trying to break every bone in his body. Then a cousin had an idea to open one on the other side of the border. That turned into another, and then one closed down, and now he has a farm that's also a pseudo resort where we can stay and gawk at alpacas and organic produce operations. That's whats in the conditions for our vacation and we will be there tomorrow.

Darian gives Isidro a big hug. I get a hearty handshake before I forgo the formalities and pull him in too.

"Surprised you two came here with clothes on," he mutters.

"I'm not the married one here," I say, "don't be jealous that I'm getting some now."

"Do you see Flora? Where do you think she is?"

The question is answered by a string of fast Spanish swearing that Isidro returns with equal parts hostility and affection. I am now unhugged. Darian fills in the gap with a pressed shoulder. I guide him to what I assume are our seats.

A frazzled head of long hair, thicker glasses and a weary smile as she sees the two of us.

"Dinner's almost ready," Flora says, "Make yourselves comfy. Isidro, get them something to drink."

"I'm working on it," he calls out.

More Spanish, ragged and blindingly fast, but lively and pure. I collapse in my chair. I don't have the energy to follow along. I don't even know the language all that well in the first place. Darian's looking around like a curious cat at all the signs on the walls, all the pictures. I spy a particular one and point it out.

It's him, catching the lip of a long dry swimming pool. I took that, on my side on a bed of hot concrete, slowly baking again and burning to a bubbly red. It wasn't my first of him, and it certainly wasn't my last. He sees it. The photo is missing a good bit of length on his hair, but it is still him.

There's more of us on the walls, even me scattered about like landmines. Darian is there. So is Isidro, his wife, his brother Leo, me again, and every other name I've seen as a caption. It's a good collage. it's a good mix of everything, a good history of everything I've ever done.

Isidro comes back, balancing a set of drinks in his hands. I see limes and salted rims.

"We're not tourists, Izzy," I say as he sets a margarita in front of both of us.

"Yes you are," he says, "don't try to pretend otherwise."

"I'm a tourist, if that gets me drinks," says Darian, "Does that get me free food too?"

"No. You get that because you are a friend, against my better judgment."

"And the suite at the farm?"

"Because I don't want to give Ty money."

"I wouldn't trust the check to clear anyway."

I knock back a good chunk of the drink and it is good. It is really, really good. Enough of a bite, good sweet lime, and the salt mixes just perfectly. Of course he can make a good margarita. Of course the food coming from the back smells amazing. To break the routine, Darian seems to like his little treat as well. He blinks twice and goes back for more. I have finally found a good vice for him and I will keep that in my back pocket for when it is most needed. Izzy's taking his straight and we are all impressed.

The back door opens and Flora comes out with a nice steaming plate lined with a red sauce that will actually probably just kill me. Izzy's back on his feet, swapping places and coming out with another large bowl. Back and forth, more romantic than any ballroom, slowly piling up at the table. The legs start to buckle and we are ready.

Darian kicks me under the table and I kick back. Something jostles on top and Flora makes us keep our hands to ourselves. We are going to be courteous guests and everything will be clean and polite. Flora nudges Isidro with her well used elbow and he is busy wiping his glasses and making sure that he can see the world clearly. He clears his throat and glances around. There are no threats here. Just two hungry travelers feigning nativity.

"So," he says, "First, thanks for coming out and doing this."

"Izzy," I say, "stop. Gratitude feels weird coming from you."

"It does and that's why he's working on it," says Flora, egging him on.

"Just let me get this out, please. It really does mean a lot and you are really helping us out. It's hard to find people that are willing to travel now. But, anyway. Thank you. Now I'll never say that again."

Flora keeps nudging him. He turns to her and another round of back and forth that I can't follow comes up. She sighs and Isidro has something that I'm not sure he should be blamed for. He is. He is being blamed for it and I'm sure they'll make up.

"I'm pregnant," Flora says with a bit of a sigh. Isidro coughs.

"Oh my God," Darian almost screams, "that's awesome."

I just laugh. I just laugh because I have nothing else to add. I'm smiling because I am happy for my friend and this will always be something to celebrate, especially when he's trying to hide everything sheepish and shied away. We know how it happened. Flora, for her part, just wants to be done with the whole thing. Probably needs to go to bed and get off her feet and just have a moment of quiet. She doesn't get that. She gets Isidro fussing over her, Darian giggling like a toddler and me just shaking my head.

I know how this can go. It didn't go too well for me, but I'm fairly confident that this scenario is at least a little different than my past. That's all it really needs to be.