Roger Harmon took a seat on the ground, digging his wing-tipped shoes into the warm sand to settle himself. The hems of his grey trousers were flecked with salty droplets. The cuffs of his coat sleeves bore dark rings where the sea had taken hold of them. The last feathered wisps of his hair swayed in a gentle sea-breeze. In his shaky fingers, he clutched a green clump of sea glass. The smooth glass was all that felt familiar in what had been a very strange day for Roger.
***
It had begun that morning when he arrived home from the grocery store. Roger pulled into what he knew to be his driveway, but his house wasn’t there. The taxi driver drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as Roger gazed up at the concrete office building before him. It would have been a wholly unremarkable structure if it were not performing the remarkable feat of occupying the exact same plot of land as Roger’s one-story cottage.
After sending the taxi-man on his way, Roger set off down the street with his paper bag of milk and bread and dark red flowers. But as he passed his neighbors’ houses, Roger’s heart began to thrum like the driver’s fingers had upon the wheel. Something felt off. Mrs. Mason’s flower bed was full of weeds. Mr. Baker’s rusty pick-up had been replaced by a shiny compact car. Hadn’t the Elliot’s begun construction on a front porch just a week ago? Here it stood, not just complete, but bearing the marks of many years of weather and use.
Roger had called a hearty hello to James, the gentleman who ran the convenience store on the corner, only to receive a confused, half-hearted wave in return. Upon closer inspection, Roger realized the young man stacking cantaloupes was not James. It couldn’t be. James had to be pushing 90, hadn’t he? This young man wasn’t a day over 25. Embarrassed by his mistake, Roger lowered his head and shuffled on.
Then the smell of the salt air hit him, and he remembered. Oh, how could he forget Setting his paper bag down on a picnic table, Roger plucked the bouquet from within and made his way out onto the sand. Bread was cheap and the milk would be bad by now anyways. Besides, Roger had a bigger problem. He had forgotten to purchase a gift.
***
Roger twisted his sea glass and smiled at the scene before him. The midday sun shone down on multi-colored umbrellas shading sticky faces and plastic pails. Teenagers clambered over rough tides, pushing deeper and deeper into the surf, a contest between false bravery and common sense. Young couples roamed the damp sand just past the reach of the waves, ambling aimlessly down the infinite stretch of beach. Their older counterparts slumped in folding chairs clutching cheap novels, cell phones, tubes of sunblock, half empty beers, a partner’s inattentive hand. A nearing shadow caught Roger’s eye and he looked up expectantly. The young woman smiled politely and continued down the beach. Roger twisted his sea glass.
As the sun began to drop and the beach began to clear, Roger noticed a middle-aged woman in a crisp white shirt and matching slacks marching up the beach towards him. The setting sun illuminated a gold-plated name tag pinned to her shirt and the relief she wore plainly on her face. When she reached him, she knelt by his side and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Are we ready to go Mr. Harmon?”
Roger smiled warmly and gave the woman’s hand a pat. Though he could not recall how he knew her, Roger was quite certain she was a friend.
“Oh, not yet Gloria, dear. She isn’t here yet.”
Gloria winced. “Mr. Harmon, I don’t think your wife is coming today.”
Roger waved her off with his lip curled, a knowing smile.
“She’s coming, dear. When Penelope says she’s going to do something, the hand of God couldn’t stop her.”
He held up the sea glass.
“It matches her eyes perfectly. Sea foam green. I’m going to make it into a necklace in my workshop. Not a bad anniversary present, eh?”
Gloria closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. She opened them to find Roger eyeing her
with concern, his luminous smile faltering.
“Are you alright, dear? You don’t look well.”
Gloria sighed. Though this was a conversation that occurred frequently in her line of work, it was not one that she ever found easy.
“Mr. Harmon, Penelope’s not coming. She died. Ten years ago. Remember?”
The pairs’ eyes locked. Penetrating brown oaks searched desperately for understanding in faded blue wafers.
Roger turned to face the water, his face empty and gaping. By the sea’s edge, a young woman plucked a shell from the foam. She pressed the shell into the palm of the young man at her side. He turned the shell in nimble fingers before tucking it into his chest pocket.
Roger turned abruptly back to Gloria, his eyes alight.
“Gloria, you’re right. I am terribly sorry. It seems I have mistaken the day. Please forgive me; my mind’s not what it used to be. My wife is not coming today. She is coming tomorrow.”
Gloria’s eyes glistened, “Mr. Harmon…”
“I am terribly sorry about the error. I do hope I haven’t inconvenienced you.”
Gloria whispered hoarsely, “Not at all, Mr. Harmon. Not at all.”
Gloria carefully helped Roger to his feet. As the pair trudged across the sand, Gloria murmured, “I’m sorry your wife couldn’t come today.”
Roger scoffed, “Don’t be sorry, dear! Today is a good day; when it is over, I get to see my Penny again and while it is here, I get to dream of her iridescent green eyes.”
Roger leaned in conspiratorially and gave Gloria a wink.
“You know, they say the anticipation is almost as good as the real thing.”
Gloria laughed and returned a watery smile.
“I hope that’s true, Mr. Harmon.”
Abigail Bates is a 2020 graduate of UMass Boston. She lives in Sandwich, Massachusetts. This story won the $250 Contest Prize in the prompt category of the Rising Stars Flash Fiction Contest. The contest was co-sponsored by Christmas Lake Creative and Dale Thomas Vaughn.
Photo: Rach/Flickr CC license
Heartbreaking