After the California Sun Sets
by Philip Goldberg
The evening sun slips into its nightly bath. From the sand, I watch the dazzling wake of purple, orange, and red splashes across the Pacific sky. The air’s chill bites into his bones but not enough to make me seek warmer confines. I grab my prosthetic, titanium below the right knee, whose nerve endings still shoot out, a painful reminder of what was once there. I learned to live without the leg crushed in a car accident, but it’s still missed. I lie to others, telling them I don’t miss the limb. They probably know I’m lying. One thing I know is I did love Angela. My wife. Even now, I do, as the surf’s edge grows closer.
I came to this beach often with her. A beach blanket spread beneath us, toes digging into the sand. We played in the water like exuberant children. Drank beers hidden in paper bags. It was her special place. Mine, too.
Waves thunder, crashing over those good memories. Water fingers spread across the sand, reaching for someone. Me? Still, I stay, remembering how things were never the same with Angela after the accident. I tried to rekindle that spirit. But my efforts went unrewarded. She didn’t own the stamina to deal with my self-pity. Her heart was no longer invested. In time, what we once had drifted away until it was impossible to retrieve. And when the door snapped shut behind her, I felt lost in a swirling sea.
A phantom throb shifts my attention to my thigh, the fleshy peninsular jutting to nothingness. At least, that’s how I view the prosthetic leg. Alien, fleshless, and impotent, a lost limb, which I compare to her lost heart. Not a clean comparison, but it serves me. I force myself to believe that.
Darkness drops. Ocean sounds rise until reaching the feverish pitch of Angela and me screaming that night. I block out what the fight was even about. Self-preservation. Still, it presents a good moment for tears, but none come. It’s better to drown in my frustration, sorrow, and loneliness, especially with whiskey as a companion.
Enough.
I gather the bottle, less than half full, and heave myself up. The crashing waves sound like they’re assaulting me from all directions. Standing, I raise the bottle in my hand as if drowning, seeking help or attention, knowing the bottle can’t give me either. So I trudge across the sand until I limp up the boardwalk steps and onto the worn planks, the relentless waves throbbing in the night air. I stop. Smell the briny air, still hoping it clears my head. It never does. Then I head to the parking lot and my car, dented and paint chipped, wondering if I would still have the leg if I weren’t drunk during our fight that night. So angry, I took a curve too fast and slammed the car into a retaining wall. I like to believe that the crash was not deliberate, just like I like to imagine that Angela and my troubles began with my lost limb.
I stare out the windshield, hands tight on the steering wheel, wondering if I am going down that same path again. I squirm, then I decide one leg was enough of a sacrifice and drop the car key to the floor. Maybe Angela would want that. Maybe I want that.
Philip Goldberg’s work has appeared in many publications, including trampset, Dillydoun Review, Straylight, Raven’s Perch, Main Street Rag, and Evening Street Review. Microfictions have appeared in Blink Ink, 50 Give or Take, and Riding Light Review. Stories have also been included in Best of collections, earned the honor of being a finalist for the 2021 James Hurst Award, and received a Pushcart Prize nomination. He has finished a novel. Contact him at goldenpsw@earthlink.net.