Page 56 of Nights Without Night
Desperately, desperately, I do not want to go back to that room. But it’s not my choice if we do, and I know if Isadoro goes back in again, I will follow, but not all of me. And not forever.
These thoughts are mostly swept away by the salt air, but they drip with squid ink, staining my skin.
By some unspoken agreement, we both know the sexual aspect of our relationship will end when we get back. The dreamlike quality of this trip has only encouraged an acceptance of truth, and we can both see this is a strange, dangerous game we’re playing.
It only makes the time we have left more intense.
At night, we become almost frantic. We dig into each other’s skin with fingers and teeth. Our hold leaves marks behind, squid ink over squid ink. Even when we drift to sleep, we cling to each other like buoys in the dark.
We spend the last night in the docks where it all started. Each harbour has a song, and this one is familiar, like it’s tucked away in memories of childhood. We buy some beer and stuff the cooler with it, sitting in the cockpit on opposite benches. We’ve got chips and salsa propped on upside-down buckets in the middle. I scoop some salsa up generously, stuffing the chip into my mouth.
“What food did you miss most when you were over there?” I ask.
“Oh man,” Isadoro says. “We were constantly talking about food. It’s like we wanted to torture ourselves. Cheeseburgers were a big thing. They’re so easy to imagine, you know, all dripping with grease…”
“Gross.”
“So good. And it was about what it meant I guess, the all-American cheeseburger. If we had that in our hands, we were definitely home.”
“Yeah, we can do grease like no other alright.”
“And, I mean, comfort food was a big thing, but that was different for all of us. I mean, sometimes I would just miss the oranges from the farm. Man, when you pick one of those big sour ones in winter…”
“Literally nothing is better.”
“Nothing. Or, oh fuck, you’re mom’s carbonara. Carbonara is one of those dishes everybody makes different enough that you really notice. Remember that time she wanted to experiment and put capers in it?”
“Literally thought you would cry.”
“I did a little,” he says, and I laugh, shaking my head. “You know what I really missed? Just getting on my bike and going for a ride. Like, we used to do that all the time as kids, we didn’t even think about it. To town, to the beach, ‘roundLa Portera…it was the thoughtlessness of it I missed. That really simple freedom.”
“Maybe you should get a bike when you get home. That way when you start feeling a little…antsy, you can hop on and clear your mind.”
“Yeah, that’s not a bad idea actually. Maybe I can get a real bike. Like, a motorbike.”
“Yeah, come back home and crack your head open, why don’t you.”
“I’ll be careful! Anyways, I’d like to see the comparative stats between motorcycle and bicycle accidents in big cities.”
“Google it.”
“Eh,” Isadoro says dismissively. I roll my eyes, smiling.
“This is the problem with you not having a phone in your hands at all times. You’ve lost crucial millennial skills.”
“No, that’s the problem with people these days. It was better when-”
“URGH! Stop! Urgh, I can’t believe you’re a hipster this is so embarrassing.”
“I am not a-”
“La, la, la, la, la-”
“I am-”
“La, la, la, la-”
“I AM A VETERAN-”
