Footprints - 1. Chapter 1

Footprints

You can’t see that far.

The beach and the sea and the sand. White gulls yellow shells and the wind. You watch the rain and the waves and the sun. But he stands out. You watch at a distance from your wooden patio built on stilts so that the tide doesn’t wash away your blue and white house. You watch him swim. You watch him dive. You watch him tan on the beach and you paint the long blond hair the long lean legs the costume straddling his thighs and waist. The lean face with a slight sun bleached goatie. But you can’t see his eyes blue? Green? Hazel? Grey? You don’t know if he has fine bristling hair on his arms and legs or a tattoo, a piercing.

Why does he come here to swim in the surf everyday at the same time? There’s nothing special about your space. No dolphins or whales. No fishermen. Just the water and tall foamy waves but he doesn’t surf. He swims. And you paint.

You can’t see the reason and it affects the canvass. You don’t know anything about him.

You want to meet him. He’s invaded your space. You struggle with colourless questions all too common that have been asked since dad fell off the bus. The technology for getting to know a stranger: What’s your name? Brett Olson Peter Gary. Gary. Mint name. Do you live in town five miles inland or closer? Girlfriend probably. You need to know more. Friend him. You need and it eats into your core like a worm slowly digesting apple pith.

He swims farther every day defeating the surf and the depth of the ocean while you strain to view his efforts through tightly held binoculars. An arm reaches out from the water and slides into the ocean as another arm touches sky over and over again. He reaches the farthest bouy and grabs it. Removes his water goggles and rests for a few moments before returning to shore.

You finish sketching the moment he touches beach and walks off without towelling himself. The semi-sweet wine is bitter on your tongue. One sip after the other until you’re warm and ready for another lonely evening. Living alone has made you stronger than you have ever been. You make dinner. Sometimes a cold meat sandwhich, sometimes pasta, sometimes cereal in the middle of the night. In the middle of the night you pace the beach watching the moon and the stars, and the cool sea breeze ruffles your short black hair. You play Catherine Jenkins or Matt Cardle or Jason Mraz. Your friends. And when sleep finally arrives, your pillow and dreams are friends too and the table on the beach is set for two facing each other. Two candles. Two bottles of champagne. You’re both naked in the light of the full moon. You reach out to touch him; it's like opposing magnetism.

You can't touch you can't kiss you can't hold.

You scream yourself awake.

You have watched him for two weeks. A lifetime of wanting. It doesn’t cross your mind that he may not want. You expect him to want. You don’t see him as a married man or a man with a girlfriend. Your wanting is not limited to sexuality

but friendship.

The loneliness consumes.

Loneliness and insanity perfectly balance each other in the art you create. Of men twisted in impossible sexual positions screaming pleasure as though in pain. Of angelic women. Is this your homophobia? Is this a reflection of the countless times you’ve been hurt so that your own homophobic tendencies surface in everything you create.

Living as a hermit has killed your desire.

Has it?

***

It’s about time you approached him. Hi, my name’s Basil. And what if he doesn’t come today? You shouldn’t be thinking like that. You know he’ll come. Same time. Same place.

And he does.

You’re leaning against a patio post watching him through your binoculars.

He strips down to his black costume and before he dashes into the sea, your sexuality is aroused by the bulge in his trunks. His footprints wash away by the small waves running the beach. He doesn’t see you or you think he doesn’t see you. Should you make today the best day of your life? The worst day of your life? What if he doesn’t want to speak to you? You can’t dwell on such negative thoughts. Try.

And so you gather your strength until, at last, you ‘re on the shore, walking in his direction and you stop several times because you need to build up enough courage to just say hello.

Hello. My name’s Basil I’ve been watching you from my house. I know you come here every day. It’s not that I’ve been stalking you but I have painted you nude hope you don’t mind. Oh, and I’ve taken photographs of your footprints. Here, want to see them?

It’s the insanity. It has set in. Eats in. Lives in.

***

‘Hi.’

He almost knocks you over as he runs out of the sea.

Oh God he has fine blonde hair on his legs.

‘Hey! Sorry I didn’t see you sitting there. So sorry man.’

You wave your hands in a dismissive gesture. ‘No…no problem.’

You have knocked me over.

‘The sea is rough today.’ Your voice is weak.

Your green eyes are beautiful. I think I’ve seen you somewhere before.

‘Yes. It’s unpleasant, but I love it.’ His breathing is harsh. ‘I had no idea anyone knew about this beach.’

‘I thought so too.’ You stand and brush the sand off your jeans. ‘I live over there, in that house.’

‘Wow. That must be incredible. You and your wife?’

‘No. Just me. I’m a painter. An artist of sorts.’

‘I’ve never met an artist before. I’m William.’

‘Pleased to meet you. I'm Basil.'

‘Well, it’s been great meeting you. Hope to see you again. Soon,' he says.

His voice is soft. Undemanding. Resonates with humility. He walks away and you want to grab him from behind and hold him kiss him take him into your madness.

As he walks away you say, ‘Tomorrow.’ Softly.

He turns, smiles and waves. ‘Tomorrow,’ he says.

To be continued...