Issue Three

Adam and I have been coming to this
part of East Dennis for the past three
years. He bought the catamaran the
first summer we spent together. I’m not
a fan – I’d rather ride on something with
sails and thought the commitment was
stupid. Adam said that I needed to grow
up and learn to take care of something
besides myself.
The sand dunes hide the roadway and
the parking lot by the access beach, but
I can still make out the opening where
the fencing is awkwardly windtipped.
I’ve been watching that spot for
the better part of two hours, seeing
families and other loudly outfitted
vacationers passing through the
gateway. No one I give two shits about.
I am sick of waiting.
Adam is kissing my neck, trying to
nudge me backwards. I’m holding the
guardrail with my back to him, and I’m
not inclined to lose my view of the
beach. I hear Adam’s frustration, but I
also know that my resistance turns him
on.
I toss my head from side to side,
exhaling loudly. Buying time.
‘Fucking jackass’, I think, ‘Where is he?
He said, he promised…’
‘No’, I remind myself, ‘he didn’t promise’.
The catamaran lurches, and I tilt my
head to the side, away from Adam. He
squeezes the tender flesh of my inner
thigh. It hurts. I yank his hand away,
but disguise my action as an excuse to
kneel and steady myself. The water has
become rocky.
I pretend not to see Adam’s look. It’s a
disdain that’s become all too common
lately. I’ve probably earned it, but it
doesn’t mean I like it.
I point at the horizon, and he follows my
lead. The inside of my mouth is
bleeding a little. I have a habit of biting
the inside of my cheek when
nervous. The sore spot tastes metallic
as I brush it with my tongue.
“Shit. Storm,” Adam says, fumbling to
his feet and making his way to the
captain’s chair. He turns the key, and
the engine sputters.
I look back at the beach and see people
collecting their towels and lounge chairs.
A trio of children dancing
PREDATOR