Inclination

THE EPILOGUE // Skipping Rocks, Skimpy Bikinis, Sunday Weddings

One Year Later

Harry sits in a dune of warm, malleable sand, his hands digging into the heated grit as he watches his fingertips disappear before forming fists full and holding them into the air to allow the satiny particles to dissipate through his fingers as gravity and wind pull it back to earth.

The lagoon before him is crystalline and surrounded by a thick assembly of luscious green trees; the small reef of sand a respite surrounding an accessible body of water and beyond that, an infinite ocean. The water is pure and inviting, heated to the touch and still - undisturbed by breeze or boats.

He's been waiting for you for minutes or hours, he has no way of judging time in this limitless state of mind, but he can sense that you have no desire to meet him here.

He misses you. It feels pathetic to be this appended, but it's out of his control and he was hoping that was something you would understand, but he supposes he was wrong. His head drapes between his shoulders before he plants his palms against the solid waves of uneven ground and pulls himself to his feet.

He walks to the bank of the lagoon and kneels down, running his fingertips through the salt water that is so warm it feels like he could bathe in it. For a moment he considers taking a dip, but he doesn't want to be adrift in case you do decide to show up. He peers over the edge of where he stands, the otherwise motionless ocean mingling with his bare toes and the soft hair around his ankles.

The steady trickle of waterfalls descend behind him and he spins on his heel to observe them; careening streams of water creeping towards the edge of a ferally overgrown cliff, spread out along the side of the bluff and meeting the lagoon below in a soothing continuous rain.

The water itself is calm and appears to be the shade of shamrock with the reflection of the trees above and he knows you would have loved it here. He wishes he could hold both of your hands and walk backwards into the brine with you before you both finally submerged and then reappeared with smiles and saturated hair. He wishes he could swim side by side with you until you reached the waterfall together, the falling sea showering against your heads and shoulders as you slipped below the waterfall into the grotto just behind.

He wishes he could sit on a rock inside of the cave with you and watch the water careening endlessly from the opposite side, make love to you on a dry and sandless plateau and then play with you afterwards. He wishes he could teasingly lift you up and toss you into the water, jumping in behind you and soothing you with kisses until you stopped splashing him in retribution and were no longer upset with him.

He takes one more look around the serene landscape before bending down and picking up a smooth, round stone. He rolls it in his fingers and his palm a few times before righting it and flinging it into the placid lake. One, two, three skips followed by perfect circular ripples and the closure of his eyelids as he accepts your absence and says goodbye to a place that he's not ready to leave yet.

Harry awakens on his back, his eyes flicker open and immediately land on his ceiling with crown molded edges. He's alone and he knows it without even breathing in a full breath of air; he pinches his eyes shut and rubs his knuckles into his sockets, watching a kaleidoscope of fireworks appear, their colors nameless and indescribable before he drops his palms to the bed and grips his sheets tightly.

He turns his head just enough to gaze at the single rhombus of neon sawdust colored lighting cast against his inanimate curtains, indicating that it's toxically early and the sight of it is burning its imprint into his retinas. He blinks a few times and rolls onto his side, sliding his arm out and curling his fingertips against the empty spot in bed next to him.

He pulls himself up to sitting and allows his comforter to fall away from his chest, his bare and solid back now exposed to the chilled and lonely air of his bedroom. His eyes lift to his busy walls; an array of paintings clutter his once simple and barren bedroom. Over the months he has added art, moving paintings around to make space for his dizzying collection of now notorious and monumental dreams, their recreation into something physical making them everlasting and memorable.