The Rocks

The day we met the world started disappearing. It happened slowly, at first, so I didn’t notice. The first day we talked I started to lose memories from when I was younger. Not notable ones, like my eighth birthday party, or middle school graduation. Small memories, like the songs my old babysitter used to sing to me when I fell asleep, or the name of my first piano teacher. When we kissed for the first time, I forgot what breed my childhood dog was and lost a few hours of my sixth-grade overnight trip. By the time we finished fucking that night I couldn’t remember what another person’s hands felt like in those same places. And then all the times after that— I can’t keep track of what went missing after all of those times.

Then the triggers became smaller. The smallest mutual gesture could make us lose our footing. Every time she would call me “baby” even though we weren’t dating, when she held me in bed, so tightly, like she was trying to cling on to something I didn’t know we had. I let myself fall into it and my feet couldn’t touch the ground. I was so wrapped up in it, I didn’t know what was disappearing until it was gone. Suddenly, it was everything.

It was just us and the ocean and the rocks.

*

We are at the beach and it’s winter. The sand is hard to walk on with my giant Doc Marten boots and I keep stumbling over small sand piles created by creatures that belong here more than I do. I am out of place in nature; nervous and uncertain. I would be embarrassed too, but she’s also wearing Doc-Martens and having the same problem. Even those well-versed in the outdoors have trouble walking on the sand in winter boots, it seems. As we approach the end of the inlet there are a series of boulders stacked on top of each other. It goes pretty high up. I turn around.

“This is gonna be embarrassing for me. Did I ever tell you my rock climbing story?”

“Yes,” she smiled. “We aren’t climbing all the way, don't worry.”

We sit on the rocks and for a while I forget that it’s cold. She takes a small antique tin out of her bag.

“Hold this.”

I take it from her and hold it in my hands, feeling all the grooves imprinted on the sides and wondering what they could be from. The tin is covered in tiny pink flowers and the metal is slightly rusted. The box reminds me of her, with her pretty floral dresses and skirts. With her collection of antique art prints. Original, with no care for the latest fads. She opens the tin and it's full of papers, pipes, a small bubbler. I laugh to myself.

“What?”

“I thought this was like a family heirloom.”

“No,” she laughs, “just my smoking tin.”

She packs a bowl and I watch her do it. She asks for cover from the wind as she pinches and pushes the weed into a compact circle. She lights up and then passes it to me, smiling and blowing smoke out of her nose.

“Ok, cool girl. Watch this.”

I take the pipe, inhale, and hold the smoke in my mouth for a second. Then, I slowly purse my lips in the shape of the letter “O” and rhythmically push out a few breaths. The small “O”s hold their position in the air for a split second before being disfigured by the wind, reminding me of how cold it is and how cold my hands are.

“I’ve been bested,” she admits. “I can’t do that one.”

I hit the pipe again and she leans in and kisses my forehead as I exhale.

“Well what about this one,” I say, taking another puff, leaning towards her this time. I place my lips against hers and push the smoke through my own lips into her mouth. I feel the smoke swirling between us; I won’t pull away until she does.

*

What I want to do is swim. I love swimming in the ocean, which shocks her, as, to her, I am someone who “would really enjoy glamping” (her words, not mine). The negative implications of that assumption outweigh the positive in my mind, but I choose to ignore it. I can’t help but smile when she tells me she’s surprised. She’s scared of the ocean. Of sharks, mostly, she says. I understand.

I like swimming in the ocean more than I like swimming in pools, I tell her. She ponders this for a second.

“Okay. Well, what about lakes?”

“Hate.”

She looks at me like she’s trying to catch me in a lie and inquires, “Why do you hate lakes and love the ocean?”

“I hate how the bottom of a lake feels on my feet. Plus, some weird shit lives in lakes. I don’t wanna touch all that.”

“Fair—”
“But the ocean,” I say, looking out towards the water in front of us, slowly losing my train of thought. “Well, the ocean is more mysterious than a lake. You can’t feel the bottom, if you go out deep enough. And it’s totally terrifying at first. Like that first wave you see about to crash over you, you’re sure you’re going to drown. It looks so huge far away. You think, there’s no way I can swim over or under something that large. But then it gets closer to you and it gets smaller, less scary. And you always make it over. Or under. And then you don’t have time to feel satisfied because another wave is coming at you and you feel it all over again.”

I turn myself back towards her and reach for the bowl but it’s gone. Completely gone. I look up at her for confirmation and she shrugs at me.

I shake my head and look away. “Does that make any sense?”

We talk about everything except what’s really going on.

*

In my head, here’s how it goes:

You undress, first your shoes and tights. Use your arms to propel yourself off the rocks. Feel your bare feet touch the sand and walk. It’s cold and squishy underneath your toes. Your feet make prints in the sand— small, but deep, reminding you how little your feet are and how heavily you press your feet when you walk. Take off your dress and undershirt and throw them behind you. It’s winter and you’re standing by the water in your bra and underwear, the waves crashing in front of you. Breathe in. You turn around to make sure she’s still there, still watching, and you’re still safe. See her on the rocks watching you. Breathe out. You signal to her: come here. She will hop off the rocks and join you by the water. Nervously, she grabs your hand. Kiss her. She begins to undress and you are both half-naked.

“Are you ready?”

*

I have vague memories of other beaches, other places, or rather just the fact that they existed at one point. But I’m here now and there’s only this in my mind. I don’t care, though, this beach is nice enough. I like the way the waves know exactly where to crash and when to stop. I like watching the sand shift below my feet when I move them. I like leaning my hand on the rocks and feeling the cool surface against my skin. All these things feel new, like I’ve never experienced them before.

Sometimes, when I look away from her, I miss what I’ve lost. All the memories of who I was, who I have been. All the memories I’ve left behind to make room for her: the address of my childhood home, the smell of my grandma baking peanut butter rice krispie treats, the name of the place we met. But when I look back at her, I don’t remember what I’m missing. It makes my head spin. It’s hard to keep track of— what exists now and what doesn’t. What’s concrete, real, and what isn’t. Our breath mixes in the cold winter air. We become indistinguishable.

I wonder what she remembers and how many memories she’s forgotten to let me in.

I wonder if she’s forgotten as much as I have.

I wonder if she likes the empty feeling, or if she misses the way her memories used to stick to her brain like putty.

*

The trash and plastic littered on the sand in front of us begin to disappear, first the water bottles, then the trash bags, and finally the pieces of rock debris. I grab her hand and squeeze it. She’s still there. The sky is clear and I can see past the clouds. All I see is the sky, the water, the sand, and my own breath. And her breath. Both of our faces are red from being slapped around by the wind.

She pulls a small sweater out of her bag. She covers my legs with it without my having to say anything. We sit and listen. The wind whistles around us, pushing us closer together, encouraging our proximity. I lean my head on her shoulder. She responds by putting her arm around me and playing with my hair. We breathe together. The waves crash onto the bottom of the rocks.

“So I’m afraid of the ocean and you aren’t, right?”

“Right,” I say with caution, wondering what she’s getting at.

“What are you afraid of then?” she asks.

I let the question sit.

“That’s pretty intense stuff for 2 pm, isn’t it?” I say with a sarcastic lilt, trying to avoid the question’s seriousness.

She looks at me with a false deadpan. “I’m serious.”

I laugh.

“Damn. I mean I’m scared of lots of stuff. Being murdered, bugs, surprise anthrax attacks, global warming, our government system—”

“Fair,” she interrupts, “fair enough,” and then kisses me and laughs a little.

“You asked,” I say into her lips.

*

You make it past the breakers with no problem. Feet floating above the sand. Not sent back to shore in a torrent of violent winter waves. It’s calm water. Like it’s summer. You are treading water as you see a wave coming your way.

“Over or under,” you ask.

“Under,” she decides.

It comes at you in slow motion. She grabs your hand and you duck. Your eyes are closed underwater and you breathe out of your nose. Feel the bubbles coming out and the wave crashing over you. Linger under the water for a few more seconds, as you feel her hand float up towards the surface. The pressure of the water surrounding your head is meditative and it’s all you feel. She tugs on it and you hear your name, muffled by the water. Stay under the water, safe and alone. She tugs again. Emerge.

“Totally thought you were dead,” she laughs.

Kiss her.

Realize that your biggest fear is her. Whatever you have with her. This. It’s all you can feel.

“Me too,” she responds— somehow.

Duck under the next wave. She will stay with you.

*

The clouds have come back tinted a vengeful gray, having absorbed the early-onset winter darkness.

I close my eyes and grip my hand firmly on the rock beneath my leg. It begins to crumble off in my hand— the painfully solid surface morphing to debris at my touch. I look back at her.

She looks down at the pieces in my hand and says, “These rocks are disappearing, we better climb down.”

I stare at her, confused for a minute. She begins to climb down —and as I watch her, I forget why I hesitated in the first place.

We climb down the rocks, she first then me, and my feet feel heavy as my boots touch the sand again. She grabs my hand and we walk back down the inlet. I try to step in the previous footsteps from our walk towards the rocks, I want to deepen them, keep them there forever. I want to remember. I must remember.

“You ready?”

I nod. She takes my hand and leads me further down the beach. As she pulls me I look behind us, craving one last glimpse of safety. But the rocks are gone. When I look over my shoulder there’s nothing there. I look down. I’m still standing on sand, but if I were to take one step back toward the rocks I’d be walking off what now looks like a ledge. It’s all gone, the entire thing. Like the end of the world.

I squeeze her hand nervously to remind myself that I’m somewhere. I don’t know where anymore.

I turn towards her, to make sure she’s seeing it too.

But she isn’t.

She’s not there.

Someone is, someone is still holding my hand dragging me down the beach. But it isn’t her. Is it? She’s still wearing Doc Martens, still tripping over the sand. She’s carrying the same bag, wearing the same hat. But It can’t be her. I would remember her.

I let go of her hand.

“What’s wrong?”

I don’t recognize the voice.

Then she starts to disappear. Her face, her eyes, her lips. Her face is blank, blotched out. I reach out with my hands to try and bring her back— grasping at the air in front of me. She fades away.

Slowly, at first, and then all at once.

*

I’m alone, standing in front of the ocean. I undress slowly until I’m completely naked. The waves are rough and choppy, crashing at my feet. But I’m not scared. I charge forward, running past the breakers to where I can’t stand. A wave comes. I dive under it, plugging my nose and closing my eyes to prepare for the crash.

I come out on the other side and there’s another one coming. I quickly glance behind me, willing the beach to be where I left it. But it isn’t; it’s just the growing dark ledge. There’s nowhere else for me to go.

I look back and see a wave coming at me, fast. I can’t feel the ground. There’s no bottom. It feels like I’ll never be able to make it over. Or under. But I do. I dive quickly under and the wave gets smaller, less scary. I pop out the other side relieved.

But another one is coming at me and I feel it all over again. I dive again, nothing left to do but swim forward.

***

Gemma Siegler is a lesbian tarot enthusiast, cat mom, reality TV fan, and fiction writer. She’s been interested in stories and how to tell them since elementary school. When she was nine, she wrote her first book Coco Wants Christmas: the story of a young Jewish girl who becomes curious about why some of her friends celebrate Christmas and she doesn’t. That book never saw the outside of her childhood apartment, but she hoped, one day, some of her writing would. Her writing poses questions about queerness, femininity, love, and the stability of reality. Gemma’s work occupies the space between realism and magical realism through sharp, dark humor and complicated warpings of emotional and physical landscapes. She hopes to write queer fiction that would have made her younger self feel seen.