A Short Story

The window is cracked a couple inches; just enough to feel an occasional draft. I've never been fond of this beach house until recently, as recent as yesterday actually. I always felt alone. Even with the company of a gardener who invited himself over for coffee. Even when coffee turned into dinner and dinner led to a seemingly intimate conversation, but, felt more like a drawn out questionnaire for me. I like being alone usually. I like the feeling of waking up diagonally in a king-size bed; falling asleep to the sound of a ceiling fan and my own breaths. I like my morning walks on the beach, reminding me of my aloneness. But, the vast seascape sizes me down to a grain of sand-- a grain of sand that someone’s dog probably pissed on. And when I walk back into my house and have coffee for one, I convince myself at how "liberating" it is to live alone.
At the beach house, there's no escape from the whelming thoughts that finally have space in my mind. If I could find comfort in television, I would turn it on. But, it doesn’t distract or move me. I envy the people who come home from stressful work days and zone out for an hour. But I can't "zone out." I have very little coping mechanisms. I practice yoga and palates. I generally feel more attractive and healthy when my inner thighs are toned and I can exhale for two minutes. But, more often than not, I put away my unflattering spandex and remind myself that self-esteem is basically, bull-shit. Some genius propagated it so I could feel okay without other human affirmation or affection. This sums up every beach weekend I've had for the last couple years, until, of course, this one.
Yesterday, the gardener invited himself over to make me dinner. It may be his ignorance, or persistence, or my lack of assertion, that makes him so confident that I enjoy his company, but I really don't. I don't enjoy someone sharing himself with me when he has the smallest idea of who I am. I answered his continuing questions , but from what he knows of me, he should have very little interest. Consequently, I told the gardener with frankness,
"I'm not going to lie to you and say that hearing myself chew dinner is music to my ears, or, watching the moon pull the tide at night with only my cup of wine, keeps me company... Being alone doesn't beat being loved (at this point he's poking at his pile of freshly pulled weeds). But feeling loved is different than being loved... and I don't think I want to feel loved again..."
My words hung there, still attached to my tongue until he replied in a somewhat uncomfortable, "okay." I smiled slightly, then took the little path between the hedges that led to the beach. I love the beach. It humbles me and keeps me honest.