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ENA steps out onto the dark, brick lined street and finds that she’s never heard a place so loud yet quiet at the very same time. The ocean- the blue ocean- crashes against distant land to a rhythm only it knows, it’s waves spilling over what might be sand. She can’t see its destination from here, only hear that it has arrived, if only momentarily before its recession. Before it is bound to repeat the motion, to kiss the shore once more. But each time is different, each day, even. The ocean never returns the same way.
Its crash into land is hard to describe as a roar- maybe for the impact it could be considered so. But as it pulls back into itself, the sound is more of a gentle drag. A wind up for what's coming next even if it is the very same thing. Recession. Retreat. Return. Repeat.
The air is salty and humid as it hits her body. Not tropical exactly but clean. Iron for once is not the primary taste in her mouth out here. This feels cleaner, lighter even. Easier to breathe in. She takes a deep breath without even thinking about it, welcoming the kinder air into her body while she has the chance. She takes a few steps down the road, the sound quiet- nearly silent compared to the sandy plains that she’s been treading all day. All around her stand buildings, little two story homes draped either by the serene hands of the moonlight or hugged away by the shadows of the night, only their outline kissed by the silver lips of the sun’s opposite. A few homes hold a single window that glows warmly in the night, a golden light that doesn’t blind but beckons.
ENA stands on the sloped street, staring up into the distant window. There’s no movement inside but she can just barely hear voices. It can’t be from that home though, they’re much too close to be up that hill. She turns her attention to one of the complexes that are closer. The muffled sound of conversation is nearly impossible to interpret but she can hear that there’s at least multiple people inside. Though catching a glimpse of even a hand or a shadow too seems to evade her. She steps closer tentatively. She’s not a stalker, she’s just looking for leads. This isn’t a detour, no, she’s simply being thorough as always.
Despite her personal assurances, ENA raises a hand to buzz the silver bell. Information is all this is. From inside the house, she hears the bell buzz for the attention of the inhabitants. No sooner upon her hands return is she greeted not with words or conversation but the alarmed barking of a dog. A small, ghost of a smile graces ENA’s mouth at the sound. She can already imagine the dog, all of its muscles tensing as it jumps up from rest, its head snapping towards a self imposed duty of defense. She wonders if it barks at her or at its owners in warning; if the dog believes in its capabilities enough to protect or if it’s simply raising alarm to its higher power.
There is no answer though, only a slight quell in the conversation before the community of voices crescendo gently back to the previous volume. The dog rests. Seagulls above squawk but they too are distant, unseen even in the moon’s attempt to brighten the world. ENA glances into the sky, a tiny, resting frown on her pale face as she searches for the birds. It quickly dawns on her that it is a futile task. The seagulls and the ocean have hidden their sound’s origin, leaving only her, the street and the moon. Her, a journey and a light. Her head tilts back down and she rings the bell a second time. A quick press. Polite. It is an intrusion that she takes no delight in for she knows what response she’s likely to receive once her presence is acknowledged. Yet, she still rings the bell that second time- she still gives one more effort to see a glimpse of a person. A reaction to her existence. Even if she knows the flavor of response, there is still a muted yet strong yearning for attention. Acknowledgement. Appreciation?
No, she won’t get that here.
The dog’s barks don’t greet her this time. The sounds of voices begin to dull out until they’re nothing more than a whisper. Until they’re silent and gone. Until ENA is left alone at the door, staring into its red color. Even the silver metal of the bell is barely catching a shine from the moon, leaving it dulled and unfulfilled as its true gleaming potential is obscured. But the light in the home never goes out. She lifts her gaze to the window, waiting in a silent stillness for anything. Anyone. Just a peek of someone to tell her that someone is indeed inside. It’s not even about being ignored, it’s about just having the proof that she is in company; however strained or indirect.
But the longer ENA stands there, the longer she makes a fool of herself. Though, no one is here to see it. No one sans herself.
ENA turns away to leave the townhome in peace. The community is compact, iron gated fences connecting the tall homes and spanning down the hill in such a way that it’s all she can see. The horizon is an endless ocean, shimmering silver but there is a second, artificial one just below it. The zig-zagged roofs of these homes stand close enough that they may as well be connected. Concatenated. Communal.
There’s an impulse to walk down the road, to idly recognize each gentle divot in the brickwork, each cracked piece and know that it was born of use. That these roads are someone’s familiar home, something they know and something that they take for granted. She glances back up past the line of homes, ignoring how her chest gains a pulling sensation as a window glows orange in her peripheral. It’s like a rope pulling from the depths of a hole, hoping that the light can warm her. Give her a little bit of reprieve- just a little bit of connection. The rope inside of her pulls taut and her body feels forced to take a step forward. She should go see the beach. Watch the waves meet their destination, watch each roll of the steady sea. Is the sand a barrier for the ocean or a goalpost? Does the sand dread each wave or yearn for it? Is the ocean’s attention more of a kiss or a slap?
She takes another few steps down the road and spots a man just ahead. His back is broad and turned away from her. With his hands on his hips, he too seems to watch the distant ocean. He stands a few feet from a road barricade. It’s not an offensive sight- it was placed in warning. Orange traffic cones hold up yellow striped boards, all colors of caution. A denial of further exploration- a barring of answers.
ENA looks over the man for a moment longer, though she can’t even say why. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even tilt his head. Not for her and not for the sights. He just stands and observes what’s out there, what’s visible from his spot. He doesn’t ask for more than he is given, so ENA takes her cue to turn around and head back to her job.
She’s already asked for too much.