A shoe slipped, sending a rather large boulder off the cliff's edge. In response, the sea let out an annoyed gasp of foam. Black-green moss floated up and down as heavy breaths evened out. Above, two figures continued on, eyes cast away from the edge. The boy held his hands behind his back, clasped together as if he was handcuffed. He scratched the inside of his palm, anxiously. The girl fixed her shoe - shaking the rocks out. They were torn, not the type of shoes one ought to wear on the cliffs. She took a breath.
“I remember one time we were driving home in the rain and you played me a song. It was something about a boy and his cool shoes. I can’t remember the name or the tune. But you knew every word. I think your brother showed you the song. Red shoes…leather? Tying shoes. When the bridge came on you turned the volume all the way up and it was so loud that the raindrops danced with you.” She paused, “I think about that all the time. Do you remember that?” The boy stopped moving, his hands still behind his back. The girl kept walking, she didn’t want him to see her face. She knew it was crumpled up and pinched in the worst places.
“No,” he said simply. It was the truth, but he wondered if he should've lied. He knew she wouldn’t like his answer. Why had he invited her? He should’ve known something like this would happen. The gray sky moaned against his delicate frame.
“We’ve been here before,” she whispered into the wind as she picked up her gait. The boy shuffled after her, hair whipping against his chapped face. She reached a large staircase, the wood as black as the rocks below.
“Maybe you have, but not with me.” He was rather annoyed at this point. She was taking this too far.
“There's no one else I would've come with.” And she dashed down the stairs, spiraling endlessly into a seaweed graveyard. Her torn shoes made no sound against the wet wood as she twirled down faster and faster. Her frame shrunk into the dark as the boy stood there, his hands still behind his back. Itchy were his palms and bloody were his fingernails. If he waited too long he would never see her again. The boy examined his own shoeless feet and willed them to move, a tremendous effort it seemed. He let go of his own hand to grab the railing, balancing himself to begin the descent. With each stair the boy’s stomach lurched. The ocean spat up at him with such disdain it took every ounce of his restraint for him to continue on.
Years later, he arrived at the bottom of the staircase. His now long beard caked in salty crystals; his fingernails long, yellow, and curled. His bare foot hit something, not soft but almost orgasmic in contrast with the damp splintering wood he had become accustomed to. He reached down with his crooked nails and grabbed it. A shoe, and it had a hole in it. Was that what he had come down here for? It reminded him of something. A song maybe? Red shoes…leather? Tying shoes. It was on the tip of his tongue. He did not have much time to ponder though, as a boulder from above came crashing down upon his delicate skull.
Commentaires