Townes and Caia, Caia and Townes | ✓

march

THE words are vicious as they cut through the dark night air.

Designed to hurt. Infected by the alcohol.

Something warm coats Townes's cheeks: tears, she realizes, as she wipes at the wetness. They color her knuckles in a mascara black.

Caia's crying too, then she jumps from where she's perched in a seat atop the porch railing. She bends down to pick up her shoes, then—without another word—she crosses the empty wooden deck to the sliding doors.

Townes finds herself spitting out another trail of useless words, rage filling her chest. A way to have the last word, the last say. A bad taste lingers on her tongue. Caia's boney hand comes up in the air, flipping Townes off before she steps into the crowded house, sliding the door shut behind her.

Her things are in there somewhere. Her keys, her coat, her phone. Instead of going to find them, Townes pushes herself off the wall, roughly wiping at her tears as she descends the two stair steps leading down from the porch, soles of her sneakers sinking into sand.

Pulling her sticky fingers through her hair, she runs her knuckles under her snotty nose and draws in a breath. Then, she follows the shoreline all the way home.