The wind cut salty and hot through the air-conditioning. The cries of gulls and screams of children sounded more like Coney Island than the romantic European beach of last year. Matteo wrapped his arms around my waist and kissed my neck, desperate for the project of our marriage to stabilize. The waves crashed in the blue bay and I was afraid for the children playing there. Images from the memories of all those I’d inhabited the night before multiplied and spread across those children’s yet-unlived lives. I saw myself as my father again, felt the muscles around my mouth slacken as I slipped towards death. I saw Matteo stroking my hair the night he proposed, and Dawn after miscarrying, caressing Howie’s shaved body, rocking his lion-like head in her arms.
And, far out in the bay, many miles from our hotel in Barcelona, I saw the drowned man I had done nothing to save. He stared up through the cold, glassy sea, recalling the warm wind, soft music, and good wine he’d been enjoying moments before.
I turned away, shut the windows, and pulled Matteo onto the bed.