Brighton Beach and Cobblestones

Short story inspired by “Ventura Highway” - America

End of summer sky

Summer is about to end, you could feel it then and you can feel it now. Clara is the only one one dumb enough to drag out a light jacket, ‘cause of how cold she get. Her thoughts are scattered so much that in the midst of a new experience, one that will take years in the making, all she can make out is this serenity of being home away from home, like that song by O.A.R. And you can’t wear white after labour day, they say. It’s the begining of an indian summer which brings the hype of a new semester, a first year at University, not unlike like that first kiss in a damp garage back when she was 14. There’s something about her teenage years that lingers still in the tone of her stories and the passions she’s feeding and building. But, yeah, everything’s a whirlwind exept the sight of old friends by the river banks. European cities have a knack for illuminating public places by night so much that you feel in the corridor of your desire.

It didn’t matter who those new guys where, the radar was off; the focus was the laughter in Clara’s mother tongue and the sounds of music that wasn’t playing. It had been long since they all saw each other, and the wood under her of the bridge over the Seine was new to her senses which amiably called the strangers drinking not far. A couple, Paps and Jean-Michel, they were intrigued by the spanish speaking young people, introducing their wine and their marijuana to them. Clara smoked and flew over away from their spontaneous conversations, resorting to dancing with her best friend. They were, they claimed, in a scene from Everyone Says I love you.

And they walked the length of the night that stretched, the boats beaming with moonlight besides the river banks, and he stood in front of her. He didn’t know who she was but, listen, she said, How come they did not have a boat? They should, now, shouldn’t they? However unprepared, without any weapons, they may be, they should still proceed to steal it. But how? Oh, the others kept walking, they have to walk behind them or else they will end up losing a fight against Madrid.

Laying against the cobblestones of old Europe, he taught her the concept of concert envy saying “There is more concert envy than there are good concerts”, as they discussed the etymology of English expressions such as “I can see where you are going” and all sorts of idioms that are not meant to be taken literally, please, but there is so much comfort in losing yourself in translation, isn't there? Especially when you find yourself in his or her beliefs, so much that you feel like grabbing that exclamation with your hand and owning it. “Your words are mine, you are speaking for me”, and it’s not the drugs, nor the wine, nor the summer breeze that leaves with Labour Day. Oh, his hand was the one to reach out and make hers write.

The days that follow are greyer, announcing the autumn of her stability. They don’t really have a means to speak or call or talk or cheer, let alone write together and see each other. She should just turn the page, as she was told to do. These swift and passing romances are meant to travel through you, and not linger. Should they linger, Clara knew, she’d fall against the limits between he and she, unable to translate the things that separate them. But it’s not about him, although she doesn’t know: it’s the changes and the foreign languages, is losing touch of her 14-year-old-voice, and not finding the warmth of a home away from home. It’s moving through places deliberately as she moved away from feelings and emotions. It’s the trouble of understanding your emotions. Parting with the difficulty of doing so, choosing to indulge in the fantasies, the utopian lyrics of your ups and downs. It is not knowing it has little to do with him and so much to do with you, ignoring what will take you to Brighton Beach. Laying down, under the sun in the cold May air, you will know you can’t ask for anything that you cannot give yourself first, can you?