Drama, Vol. 2.2, June 2008
HE: The first footprint on the beach was mine.
SHE: The second came a few inches after, ballet dance, was mine.
HE: With your steps, you wrote a line of poetry in a language I did not know.
SHE: Yours was a line of urgency, marching forward. Your steps were like those of a forbidden hero in an epic.
HE: I no longer remember if I was marching forward or marching away.
SHE: Sometimes I tried to walk faster to catch up with you. But the distance became cosier and cosier by the minute. I felt like I was floating, and you were a kind of anchor fated ahead.
HE: My faltering line of footprints became a measure of ruined victory, like the Great Wall, visible from the moon. Of course I thought I could make you walk faster.
SHE: When finally you stopped, I stopped too. Two separate lines stilled in time. I thought perhaps gravity and the moon would do something to drag the bulk of seawaves closer to us and eventually wash away the fleeting marks of our unspoken distance and closeness. Indeed I saw the moon, fuller than usual.
HE: You thought the goddess of the moon was compassionate. But I only knew the capricious, old, claret-drinking Man in the Moon. Did she or he tug the tide so hard, the gentle, lapping waves become a mooncalf that could obliterate the line and the beach? When I climbed back to my feet, saw an ocean where our feet had stepped. I thought I could make out a figure on the distant shore, but I could not see if it was you.
SHE: The legendary goddess of the moon. She stole and swallowed the pill for immortality from her husband and became so light that she flew like a feather to the moon and forever settled there with a rabbit, and a man who kept chopping the same tree. Did she regret the rash decision? I knew she did. Thinking back, that night, I retraced my steps to the beginning of the beach when you were not looking. You see, some decisions left lingering remorse.
HE: You obscured every footstep, every line of poetry, every ballet step, as you walked away. Except one, the last pivot, where you could not stop yourself from looking back. The last footprint on the beach was yours.