Escaping from family and parents as planned, with the moon as a torch and
the wind as a cloak, we ran through the forest of silent sentinels until we
reached the open field. We ran on through the panic until our empty lungs
called a halt, and then we more slowly made our way down to the beach of
desolation, to the rocks dark and glooming as though preparing for
doomsday. The waves crashed on the shoreline, spent carnival lights of foam
luminescing, the commotion of their breaking overpowering other sounds,
heightening our sense of exposure. The wind was blustering, blowing at our
clothes and throwing our hair into our faces. The noise of our harsh
breathing, rasping into our throats, added to the sense of alarm. The beach
was not the place of hiding we had expected. It was more open than we
remembered in our romantic tête-à-têtes. Neither of us had experienced this
type of circumstance before. We felt exposed in the danger we had created.
Neither of us knew how to handle the trepidation we felt, let alone know how
to support another in the same condition. The goal of being alone with each
other had been such an alluring enticement that neither of us had considered
the effects of our boldness, nor the effects of the adrenaline that was now
coursing through our arteries. It was more than either of us could command.
We stood on the sand, facing each other, not touching, until our breathing
slowly, ever so slowly, subsided to something akin to normal. Then she said,
“I want to go back”.
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