BY JOSHUA JONES LOFFLIN
A lip of sun balances against the waves. Light scatters, stretches, wraps about Elise’s legs. She wades deeper. There’s a quiet churn of surf and, further out, shocked gasps—or perhaps sighs—of bodies slipping under. Further out still, a slap of tails. Black dorsal fins slicing the water.
Before this, sand cushions Elise’s fall, and she regains her feet amid a jostle of flesh: girl in lime bikini; man in sweat-stained suit; kid in McDonald’s uniform and drive-thru headset; octogenarian in nothing at all. All of them walking. The water waiting.
Before her leap, Elise leans out from the condo’s balcony. She’s only one story up but can see everything: the throng of people tramping dunes and sea oats, the water beyond. Her tongue is swollen, throat tight. God she’s thirsty.
And before Elise steps to the edge, there’s Charmaine tapping on the balcony’s sliding door, her voice tinny through the glass as she cries, There’s a cell signal! He made it! Mark’s safe!
And hours before that, Will hunches over the TV, tilting it this way and that, trying to summon signal from static, and Charmaine beside him, gazing onto the balcony where Elise has been all morning, maybe all night. Does she even know the power’s back on?
And before that, the throaty chop of a helicopter, its news crew panning across the figures flooding the beach, panning across the shallows where they stumble forward, panning further, toward the depths where sinuous hulls of sharks glide between dark, splayed shapes.
Before that, Charmaine venturing onto the balcony, saying, Shouldn’t you come inside? Like, what if it is airborne? And Elise shaking her head, saying she’s plenty far away, her good eye fixed on the people below—each one marching forward as if pulled by the tides—her other eye swollen beyond what makeup can fix. And Charmaine saying, Stop worrying. I’m sure he’s not one of them.
And before the dawn light bleeds across the sand, Elise sits curled in the balcony’s plastic chair smoking a last cigarette even though she’d promised Mark she’d quit. Her hand trembles as she takes a drag, as she watches a figure shuffling across the dunes. His tanned legs moving stiffly, the sunburst tattoo on his shoulder winking in the growing light.
And hours before, a moonless night and brilliance of stars, and Elise shivering like she’s cold, and the boy from the neighboring condo holding her. And he’s so young, and he doesn’t ask why, and neither of them sees the dark shapes drifting onto the beach.
And before the boy lights her cigarette, he points out constellations—Draco, Cassiopeia—saying he might switch majors to astronomy once they get out of all this mess. But Elise isn’t listening. She’s drinking wine from the bottle, a cheap red he’d scavenged from a deserted shop. The boy stares at her swelling eye though it must be too dark to make out, then says, How ‘bout you? What will you do when you get back home?
And how many hours before that, with Mark shouting at her to shut up, that he’s not going to hang around anymore, that somebody has to make a break for it, his breath reeking of sour hops, his spittle lashing her cheek. And Elise beating on his back, his neck, his arms as he unbolts the door, as he slams her into the drywall, as he uncurls his fists and steps across her starfished limbs. He doesn’t look back at Will or Charmaine. No one looks at Elise.
And before the last cans of beer, there were the shots of José, the coconut rum—first with lime, then straight—the mini bottles of Fireball like when they were kids, the half-empty bottle of Jäger left by previous renters.
And before the power goes out, there’s a constant scream of sirens and crackle of gunfire, each pop sounding as harmless as the lady fingers they’d light on July Fourth. And Mark and Will fixating on CNN, on Fox, on the local ABC affiliate that’s down to a skeleton crew, down to a single anchor, down to a Please Stand By message, down to a Kenny G sax solo playing in the background.
And before the reports of looting, the Guard mobilizations, the interactive maps of quarantine zones in orange and red, there’s a gentle downpour and clouds tearing at the horizon. And tourists not bothering to get out of the wet but milling across the beach toward rain-pebbled waves. And Mark and Will already four beers in and heckling them from the balcony. Hey dummies! It’s raining out! And Charmaine arching her eyebrows while mixing up a pitcher of margaritas, telling Elise, Relax, this is supposed to be a vacation. And Elise’s eyes looking past Charmaine, past Mark and Will, all the way to the crowd spilling forward, spilling into the waves.
And before Mark and Will get back from their beer run, Charmaine whispering to Elise, Check out the eye candy next door, before waving to the young men—boys, really—who are on the adjoining balcony filling a cooler with ice. They strip off shirts, don’t have to suck in guts. The tallest, a raven-haired youth with sunburst tattoo, smiles and offers them a Corona.
And before they finish unpacking, Charmaine frowning at the weather report, saying she hopes it’ll clear for the sunset, that she’s dying to see the green flash, it’s supposed to bring good luck, and Elise muttering, We’re going to need it.
And before everything, there’s Elise rattling the key from the rental office, fitting it in the lock, and Mark already laying into her to open the goddamn door, like what the fuck is wrong with her, but the key is stuck, won’t turn at all, until Mark finally shoves her out of the way and works the lock open, and then they’re inside.
Joshua Jones Lofflin’s writing has appeared in The Best Microfictions 2020, The Best Small Fictions 2019, The Cincinnati Review, CRAFT, Paper Darts, SmokeLong Quarterly, Split Lip Magazine, and elsewhere. He lives in Maryland. Find him on Twitter @jjlofflin or visit his website: jjlofflin.com