by Ashley Cook

It was the day he died. I was on my way to meet him at tower nine. The day was chilly, somewhat cloudy, and the sun was waking it's bright and shiny ass up. I could see the light layered across the ocean. Glassy, I thought. Will usually left before I could even open a lid and when I managed to arrive with breakfast, a ham and egg sandwich always tasted great after a long session of early morning waves, I knew he'd smile with delight. I knew he'd have a huge wet grin as soon as he saw me walk across the trail of sand-filled imprints.

"Have you ever met a soul surfer?" I asked an old woman who sat on the ground between a concrete bench and a trash barrel, her life stored in a crinkled paper bag. She didn't move an inch.

I looked under the white cloth, but they pushed me aside. I collapsed to my knees as they brought the stretcher up the sedimentary stairs. A life just rolled over my toes; it all came together and broke apart with one fatal crash to the sand. My shore had ended. We were trying to keep afloat. Our relationship was below sea level and all hope was just about to drown. Will, did instead.

It was eight to ten that day, face value. No one around except a few soul surfers. On my way to the beach that early morning I heard my favorite comedian, Phil Hartman, died the night before. I almost cried through the commentary, than as soon as they played that sad sad song ...I turned the damn radio off.

I'm alone. It's seven in the morning and the sun was barely out. I'm too young to be going through such torment. I've thought of this moment often while driving to the store just for a quart of milk and some butter, I'd cry as if it really happened. This is odd. This is real. I can't cry. I feel dazed and very light. My knees hurt from the ground and the sand feels cold. I took off all my clothes, nothing but my bathing suit on, and I started to dig like a crazy spun out dog. I dug and I dug and I dug, until sloppy mud covered my soul. Then, I lay with my entire body sopping with wet sand.

A voiced called out to me, "Are you nuts?"

Who wants to know? I watched my boyfriend be carried away in a body bag and this person wants to know if I'm nuts! I really felt like a wrinkled walrus being caught in a forbidden jar of anchovies.

"Sloppy! Sloppy! Sloppy!" I yelled back.

"Sloppy little walrus in a desperate situation!" I patted the ground like homemade mud pie. "I'm an angel."

A few other people ran over.

"What the fuck?"

"Who the hell is that?"

"What's she doing?"

Some laughed but most looked concerned, as if, I knew better. This wasn't an ordinary day where all I had to worry about was what kind of breakfast to get, Johnny Manana's dollar ninety nine burrito or Jack in the Box sourdough sandwich? Which will it be? I said screw it, grabbed my fiberglass, and decided to charge it.