That Which Never Changes

That Which Never Changes

by

Jeff Byrne

It had been an OK week at the beach. The weather was mostly sunny, and while there had been a couple of cloudy days, at least it hadn't rained. Barry and Sue's place was a weathered mid-price rental that had lots of windows and thin walls, so she could easily hear that Barry and Sue were enjoying the week.

She'd become accustomed to playing their third, and sometimes fifth or seventh, wheel. Not that she didn't date or anything. It was just that nobody stuck. The problem with being a high school biology teacher in a small western Pennsylvania town. The good-looking mechanic-type guys weren't her intellectual equals, and the professional men, such as they were, were either married, closet gay, or just unattractive.

She booked a room for Sunday night, after the rental ended on Sunday afternoon. The prospect of getting up at 3.30 am on Monday to drive home and start school for the year was worth another six hours of sun. She spent the day on the beach, reading and watching people packing up to go back to their lives. By late afternoon, she had the beach pretty much to herself.

The room was OK, a mid-price hotel on the north end of the boardwalk. And here she sat, at the bar of the Whale 'n Schooner, college football on the TV's, nibbling on clams casino and a mid-price Chardonnay. The clams weren't bad, and the wine was a pleasant surprise.

She was watching the Alabama-Georgia game over her shoulder when he came in. Sat on the stool next to her. She flicked a glance at him, traced a smile. He said good evening.

Who the hell says good evening, she thought. Not bad-looking, a bit of a gut and the hair going thin, but not a slob, and, hey, he says good evening.

He ordered a beer and a menu. She busied herself with the clams and the game and tried to decide what to say to him.

You know who won the Penn State game, she asked.

Last I saw, they were down by 16, and Joe Pa looked none too pleased. I didn't see the end, he replied.

That started it. He had clams and a cheeseburger while she had the flounder. They talked about football, comparing Penn State and Notre Dame and what it was like to grow up as default fans due to family loyalties to their respective alma maters. Talked about their jobs, she a teacher, him a freelance writer up at the beach for the weekend. She had another glass of wine and was finally feeling like the week had gotten satisfying.

A shame, really, that she had to get up so early the next day. She said that as she apologetically asked for her tab, leaving him in mid-sentence and looking a bit downcast. The poor guy had hopes, no doubt.

He said, well, how about a walk on the beach? The moon's full tonight.

Why not, she thought. It wasn't the wine, she wasn't afraid of him. And a last walk on the beach would be a nice way to end the week.

They settled their checks and strolled out to the boardwalk. The moon was, indeed, coming up full over the ocean. When they reached the sand, he kicked off his shoes and held his hand out to her. She hesitated for a split second, long enough for him to see and say come on, I won't hurt you.

She smiled and took his hand and they walked down the beach to where the rising moon made the sand look like snow. Sat on the cold sand and watched it come up.

He said, I like to come here to get away occasionally. There's a quality to the beach that's difficult to describe. The sun and the sand and the salt in the air are all great, but there's something more here. A permanence that I don't find anywhere else in life.

She thought about that, didn't say anything. Why did she come here year after year? It certainly wasn't because of the mid-priced rental and the thrill of being Barry and Sue's third wheel.

He sat, looking at the moon coming up over the ocean. Was quiet for awhile, then said: This here, the ocean and the moon rising, this doesn't change. For thousands of years, people have come here to watch this happen every night - the tide coming in and the moon coming up. That over there - he indicated the condos, restaurants and beach shops that lined the highway behind them with a nod of his head - that always changes. It changes by the millisecond. It has no permanence, and in most ways is not real. This, this here, indicating by another nod the moon and the ocean, this never changes. It has timelessness about it. When I come here and look at this I know that I am a part of creation in a very intense and personal way. It flows into me and through me and I am of it and it is of me, and when I leave here part of it stays with me. He looked at her directly. It's always here for us. No matter where we go or what we do, we can always come back to it, and it will always be here.

She thought about that for a moment. Thought about what she was heading back to too early the following morning. Wondered whether what she was returning to had any permanence, or if, as he said, it wasn't real. Wondered whether she would be able to tell the difference.

She kissed him then, hard, like she meant it. Felt his entire body stiffen and then relax. Tasted the beer on his mouth, smelled the cologne on his collar.

Then she got up, brushed the sand off her behind, and walked back to her hotel, leaving him sitting there, looking at that which never changes. She had to get up early.