The shifter sticks coming out of second, the chassis groans in the turns, and the crumbling wheel fits in with the countryside. Everywhere outcrops of disheveling rock spot the green hillsides. Livestock pull by the root, unconcerned. And on he drives, his feet pressuring each pedal as needs be, his eyes shirking the light as he pulls into the shade of the next hill.

He remembers her as he drives, leaning into the turns, then forgets awhile. The road straightens out and she returns. He wonders what they were like then. He wonders what it would’ve been to sit across from them in a crowded cafe, feeling the heat from across the room. He can see her downturned eyes, her lovely eyes. He sees himself, a brooding colt. He remembers how every word wore so heavy on them. And he remembers the pain and the long road of goodbye. He looks out at a pasture to his right. It seems peaceful to him. He considers pulling over, cutting the rubber of his tires, and staying forever.

A grin finds his lips. His foot pushes down on the accelerator. A cable under the hood behind him signals the old engine to let more air in.

He remembers it all as though he read it in a friendly, old book. She loves the world with all she has. She bleeds for it. He tries to follow. After all, he’s young. He thinks he’s invincible. Love is a chemical addiction. Summer nights burn fierce. 

The grin fades from his face as he remembers further. The sea shows itself to his right. The brilliant blues draw his eyes. The worn shifter fits in his fastball fingers like some ancient craftsman meant it to. He’s glad he remembers the good. 

In his memory cafe, he rises from his seat and leaves the young couple in their place by the window. His heart still has mending to do. He’s gentle with the shifter as he pulls back out of second. The road winds ahead. He smells the air blowing in from the sea, and sets his jaw in a proud place. His resilience and his jaw line are all he has left. He doesn’t care if his eyes are soft now or his heart is quick to run. 

He looks out over the steering wheel at the road ahead.

Two hundred years prior a ship enters the channel. There is no bridge, no pillars. There is only a wide river cutting through cliffs of green. Russian fur traders piss off the bow. They laugh to one another at the steam rising and the streams they leave. A swede watches from his place on the starboard rail. He’s in awe of the new world. What great things we’ll accomplish here, he thinks, what a land this will be. If only he could see the concrete pillars two hundred years later. If only we could say to him, “yes those are cars crossing that channel in seconds.” And he would ask where are they going and why, and we’d say, “to buy trinkets and over-priced coffee of course.” And he might shake at the future and the ease of life. 

“And the winters?” he’d ask. 
“Not so bad,” we’d say. 

And he’d grin in a way only those of the North can and we’d see hope in it, so we’d add, “It’s actually pretty tolerable. We’re figuring it all out. Would you like an Americano?” 

“amare…” he’d trail off and smile.

And we’d sip the bean water and discuss the many technological advances humans have made in all the years since he’s been around, and he’ll revel in our brilliance.

“So—no more poor?”

To which we’d stutter and fall silent.

“Um, still a lot of poor folks out there.”
“But surely no more hungry children?”

To which we’d swallow a lump.

“Plenty, we’re afraid.”
“Hmmm.” He’d say, and we’d be ashamed to see that happy northern smile fade back into the past. 

But we would have no more words. Would we tell him of the nuclear bombs or the wars that would make his tremble?

After a time, the Swede would sigh and we would prepare for his words. He’d sip his americano, looking down at the funny little cup.

“I was poor when I walked the world.” He would say. Then he’d set down his cup and rise from his chair.
“What now?”

And Neither him, nor you, nor I would see the wave coming.

She smiled like a criminal from her side of the table. Her skin was browned from the summer sun and shone from her time in the sea. Her smile came in flashes of brilliance. It was always so. Her grin and then her eyes. One to draw you in and one to cut you.

People coming into town to see what all the fuss was about filtered in through the door. They commented on the muffins and the taste of the local coffee. But he only loved her in the corner. And she held him there, dangling that smile and the soft places along her neck. The straps of her dress hung loosely about her shoulders. He followed the traces of her lines, eyed the faint shadowing along her shoulders.

From across the cafe, two men with white hair watched.

“Hmm.”
“Like a fly in a spider’s web.”
“Let him.”
“Oh, I won’t speak up.”

The old man grabbed his coffee from the bar and smiled at the barista through the steam. 

“Good.” He said.
“But it is clear, he’s caught.”

The old man grinned without teeth.

“Clearly.”

The young man in the corner whispered something to the beautiful girl and she smiled again. She rose without smoothing out her dress. She extended a hand and her eyes followed. The young man sat, floored.

One of the white haired men whistled low.

The young man took her hand. The beautiful girl flowed by, and out on to the street. She grew more beautiful in the sunlight. Heads turned as the young man followed.

The old man who had grinned sipped his coffee.

“To be caught again.”

And his old mind drifted upwards with the steam from the espresso machine. It drifted up higher and faded into an older time, when he took a hand of a beautiful girl and still loved the beaches and the sun. The old man grinned without teeth as he reminisced about his legs when he was young and the way the surf felt as it crashed over his shoulders. And he saw his girl, laughing in the summer sun. Her skin was brown too.

The phone rang.

“Are you sure about this?” she asked.

He grinned.

“Don’t answer it.”
“That’s the third voicemail today.”
“To hell with ‘em.”
“They’ll fire you by Monday.”

The thought excited him. It filled him with dread, and the same feeling of morbid hate flooded his gut. It was the feeling of standing at the feet of a monster without so much as a toothpick to defend yourself.

“Let’s go,” he said, but his smile was gone.

It was the little boy’s first day ever at the beach and he never saw the ocean. The ocean was too far off and there was too much sand to eat and feel.

The river that ran alongside the beach was green and deep. A seal’s wide head protruded from the surface, its black eyes blinking at them from the green.

They were talking about anything but work. She knew he was worried even though he smiled and pointed at the birds. But at the sight of the seal, he said, “let’s not worry anymore,” as though they had been talking about it all along. 

He snatched the little boy up and threw him over his shoulders. The little boy’s head bounced as they made their way to the water.

“You see it?” he asked.

He pointed out over the river. The waves were still too far to see. The little boy squinted at the strange thing bobbing in the water. The seal blew mist from its nostrils. They could see droplets dripping from his whiskers. The little boy watched quietly. The black eyes blinked back at him.

“You see?” he whispered.

The little boy shook his arm. The seal blew more mist from its nostrils. He held the boy close and watched his eyes. The little boy smiled and he knew they’d be alright.