By M.R. Lehman Wiens

I watch and the wind grabs the breath from her mouth and tosses it into the surf. 

The children are close to the water, digging, delving deep into the sand. Their backs are turning red, but I can’t bring myself to make them pause for another coat of sunscreen. I remember being sunburned at the beach, remember it being a part of summer. They’ll be fine, I think to myself. They’re making memories. 

Rachel sighs again, and I know that she disagrees with me, know that she’s thinking of elevated cancer risks and the kids whining through the evening in straitjackets of hot, irritated skin. I don’t have to look at her, but I know.

I think of the look she’ll give me as I’m rubbing aloe on their backs, and I frown.

“That good, huh?”

Rachel is nodding towards my book. 

“It’s nothing. Just a random thought.”

The book is open, but I haven’t been reading. The sun is too bright, and the wind and the noise of seagulls and waves are washing the words from my mind before they can take root. 

“What?” Rachel pushes.

“It would take too long to explain. It’s not worth it.”

“Well, try,” she says, her tone shifting, drawing up something sour from our shared reservoir of spite. I glance over at her; she is lying on her towel, unmoving, still as a corpse. Sunglasses cover her eyes as she basks in the sun. Staring at her, I imagine her oiled skin darkening to bright copper, almost bright orange, before it dulls. A patina starts at her chest and spreads like wine across a table cloth. The verdigre grows, covers her body. She will remain on this beach, rusting away, alone, forever.

I try to make something up, a memory of a dream I had or didn’t have last night, one where I grew wings but couldn’t fly and felt like a failure.

“Really, Jon?”

I want to take the bait. I want to snap at her that it’s just a dream, and she asked, so why does she care? I want to tell her to have some imagination, to remember that I’m not one of her children. I want to lay next to her beach towel and ask her why we can’t talk anymore. 

But I don’t. 

I set my book down and close my eyes. She gets up, her footsteps a thick staccato in the sand, and the sounds of our children’s protests fill the air as she approaches them with the sunblock. I lay still with my book, alone, turning copper and bronze in the sun. 

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M.R. Lehman Wiens is a Pushcart-nominated writer and stay-at-home dad living in Kansas. His work has previously appeared, or is upcoming, in Consequence, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Metaworker, The First Line, and others. He can be found on Threads as @lehmanwienswrites.