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Authors: Weston Ochse
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herself. Jesus reigned on every corner. Whitewashed walls, mud-daubed hovels and Spanish mission-style buildings were adorned with evidence of Catholic worship, as if each architectural creation rising above the earth was its own monolithic prayer to Jesus, Mary and Jehovah.
Most of the places along the coast were little more than replicas of themselves, but this town had a different feel. The same Catholic cultism was everywhere, but added to that was an older feel, as if it had been rooted in the earth since creation. He hadn't been able to put his finger on it until just now, but looking at the statue made him realize that the people in this town were older, much older. The old woman in the shawl marked her age with a deeply creviced face and eyes like sunken marbles. He'd read that the town had been a fishing village even before the Spanish came to the land. Somehow that age translated to reality. The age of the place, the way the sun fell into the sea every night, and this monolithic statue, separated this town from all the rest.
"I wonder how long that's been there," he said.
June squeezed his hand. "You'll be moving on soon. When's the last time you saw your mother? She sounds like a wonderful woman."
"Hold on. No need to rush me out of here. I thought I'd stay awhile."
"There's a hard line between living here and visiting. If you're visiting, then there's a time to leave. Maybe now is that time."
"What's the hurry?” He grinned, hoping it would be contagious. “Besides, I kind of like it here."
"You're staying because of me, aren't you?"
He hesitated but a moment. "Of course I am. You're the best thing to happen to me in months. Years,” he hurriedly added. “I thought I'd hang out, but if you don't want me, hell."
She stared at him, her eyes wide pools of fear, but then something happened and she looked away. The soft liquid pools hardened to stone. Her lips made a thin line. "Then leave. I don't want you here."
He'd only been testing her, but her response cut him. It cut him deep. His face began to burn. "I can leave tomorrow," he said.
***
The tepid temperature of the water surprised him. South towards the entrance of the Bay of California where the Sea of Cortez and the Pacific Ocean meet, the water was cool and refreshing. He'd surfed there six weeks ago and would go back in a heartbeat. Yet here, only a few hundred miles north, the water here was almost bathtub warm, and not at all comfortable.
But then the water was the least of his worries. The rope attached from his ankle to the statue far beneath the waves was what had spooked him the most. He hadn’t seen the statue, but when one of the others had asked what they were to be tethered to, the quick Spanish answer of the old man who drove the truck said something about it being like the statue in the town only larger. Looking around at the eleven other swimmers, he wondered which one would die this day. He knew it could be him, but the whole thing didn't seem real.
What had she said?
"I did it three times. I wanted to die the first two and was pissed when the boat came to take me away. After all, why was I still alive? Why was I the one to carry on the memory of the living? I didn't want it. I didn't deserve it."
"But you went back? Why'd you do that?"
"The third time was soothing. I didn't care at that point. I'd met twenty men and been fucked eleven times. I'd written letters to my mother that I'd never mail. I'd even made a video on my cell phone that was my last will, testament and fuck you to the world. I think I survived because I wanted to die."
She'd seen his face which had puckered in surprise and had caressed it as she straddled him once more. She took him in and moved, her eyes seeking a land between reminiscence and heaven. "No. That's not really true. I think I survived because I finally understood that I didn't have to pay for it."
"Pay for what?"
"Living," she sighed as yet another orgasm shook her. “Living other
Most of the places along the coast were little more than replicas of themselves, but this town had a different feel. The same Catholic cultism was everywhere, but added to that was an older feel, as if it had been rooted in the earth since creation. He hadn't been able to put his finger on it until just now, but looking at the statue made him realize that the people in this town were older, much older. The old woman in the shawl marked her age with a deeply creviced face and eyes like sunken marbles. He'd read that the town had been a fishing village even before the Spanish came to the land. Somehow that age translated to reality. The age of the place, the way the sun fell into the sea every night, and this monolithic statue, separated this town from all the rest.
"I wonder how long that's been there," he said.
June squeezed his hand. "You'll be moving on soon. When's the last time you saw your mother? She sounds like a wonderful woman."
"Hold on. No need to rush me out of here. I thought I'd stay awhile."
"There's a hard line between living here and visiting. If you're visiting, then there's a time to leave. Maybe now is that time."
"What's the hurry?” He grinned, hoping it would be contagious. “Besides, I kind of like it here."
"You're staying because of me, aren't you?"
He hesitated but a moment. "Of course I am. You're the best thing to happen to me in months. Years,” he hurriedly added. “I thought I'd hang out, but if you don't want me, hell."
She stared at him, her eyes wide pools of fear, but then something happened and she looked away. The soft liquid pools hardened to stone. Her lips made a thin line. "Then leave. I don't want you here."
He'd only been testing her, but her response cut him. It cut him deep. His face began to burn. "I can leave tomorrow," he said.
***
The tepid temperature of the water surprised him. South towards the entrance of the Bay of California where the Sea of Cortez and the Pacific Ocean meet, the water was cool and refreshing. He'd surfed there six weeks ago and would go back in a heartbeat. Yet here, only a few hundred miles north, the water here was almost bathtub warm, and not at all comfortable.
But then the water was the least of his worries. The rope attached from his ankle to the statue far beneath the waves was what had spooked him the most. He hadn’t seen the statue, but when one of the others had asked what they were to be tethered to, the quick Spanish answer of the old man who drove the truck said something about it being like the statue in the town only larger. Looking around at the eleven other swimmers, he wondered which one would die this day. He knew it could be him, but the whole thing didn't seem real.
What had she said?
"I did it three times. I wanted to die the first two and was pissed when the boat came to take me away. After all, why was I still alive? Why was I the one to carry on the memory of the living? I didn't want it. I didn't deserve it."
"But you went back? Why'd you do that?"
"The third time was soothing. I didn't care at that point. I'd met twenty men and been fucked eleven times. I'd written letters to my mother that I'd never mail. I'd even made a video on my cell phone that was my last will, testament and fuck you to the world. I think I survived because I wanted to die."
She'd seen his face which had puckered in surprise and had caressed it as she straddled him once more. She took him in and moved, her eyes seeking a land between reminiscence and heaven. "No. That's not really true. I think I survived because I finally understood that I didn't have to pay for it."
"Pay for what?"
"Living," she sighed as yet another orgasm shook her. “Living other
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