Faye walked through the gallery doors and looked for her friend, afraid to be alone in a sea of strangers. She felt beads of sweat hanging on the peach fuzz across her upper lip and brushed them away, hoping no one had noticed. She walked to the nearest exhibition, staring at the dark brown canvas studded with protruding nails. “Epidermis,” she murmured the title to herself and touched the soft inside of her elbow, her finger drawing a long line down to her wrist, wondering what type of pain had caused the artist to choose such heavily corroded red nails.
I’m here, where r u? she texted her friend.
She paused, waiting for a response. Nothing. She moved on, glancing over a neon sculpture flickering like a cheap liquor sign and a pile of delicately arranged rope. Her eyes landed on a small TV with a mammoth backside. She snagged the empty seat in front of the screen and put the headphones over her ears.
Faye watched as a carefully edited montage of blinking eyes filled the screen, pupils dilating in and out rapidly, and then a sharp cut to violently crashing waves, craggy rocks battered by the brute force of an angry ocean. She sat transfixed as the dissonance of minor chords and rhythmic drumming filled her ears, the screen now full of a kelp forest rocking underwater, a tsunami swallowing a car, and then again the repeated flashing of blinking eyes, the camera zooming in closer and closer until the dark pupils consumed the entire screen. A faraway wail cut through the drums as the screen went completely dark, only for the loop to begin again. Faye sat unmoving, watching. Her insides felt hollow and cold, and then full of nostalgic sorrow, a familiar dread creeping back in.
She jumped as Ella crashed into the chair next to her, “Faye, you made it!”
She blinked as her hands reached for the headphones, moving slowly, too deliberately before sliding them off. The sound of laughter and shuffling feet rushed to greet her and she forced a smile.
“I’ve been here, I texted you when I arrived,” Faye replied. “Where is your piece?” she asked, standing up.
“Over here, I’ll show you.” Ella squeezed Faye closely. Faye could feel her own cold skin against Ella’s sticky exposed arms, flush from drinking.
“Who’s the artist behind this film?”
“Oh, did you like it? I haven’t seen it yet, I’ve been wanting to,” Ella talked quickly, giddy on adrenaline. “Alma is the videographer, she is amazing. Dark shit, but amazing. You’d love her. Where is she? I’ll introduce you if I can find her...”
Faye absorbed each word slowly, as if listening through a dense fog, her mind struggling to crawl out from what she had seen on the screen -- the waves, the power of the ocean, the memories that kept threatening to resurface. They turned towards a small group of young twenty-somethings with carefully curated accessories and nonchalant style, boxy pants and crisp chore shirts, razor sharp bangs and arms dotted in tattoos.
“Alma! Sorry to interrupt, I want you to meet Faye, a friend of mine who does film photography,” Ella cut in cheerfully, “she loved your exhibit.”
Faye was barely paying attention to Ella’s words as she reached across the space to offer her hand, her eyes locked with Alma’s unwavering gaze, wide-set brown eyes full of intensity, but her face warm, round, and earnest. She saw the corners of Alma’s pink lips turn upwards ever so slightly as their hands touched. She was aware of the sturdy grip, the long fingers wrapping around hers, the calloused flesh of the palm.
“Hi,” Faye said, as warmly as her dry mouth would allow.
“Hi,” Alma replied, blinking slowly, pupils dilating in the dim light.
Had she filmed her own eyes? Where had she gone to capture those violent waves? Faye shuddered under her skin. Her diaphragm contracted uncomfortably, then released, fear and attraction blurring into a puddle of emotion resting just beneath the surface. She took a deep breath, just like her therapist taught her.
---
She is sliding down, racing into black nothingness, dark tunnels becoming smaller and smaller the faster she goes, each breath tighter than the last. Alma’s gentle lips appear, first as a faraway pink dot of light, then growing bigger and brighter as she slides closer. Alma’s entire face and deep staring eyes come fully into view. Faye reaches towards her and just as their lips are about to touch, Alma begins to liquidate, flesh turning to water, splashing into a giant wave. Alma becomes an unseen ocean, sucking fiercely at Faye’s feet, like an undertow pulling rocks across a sandy shore. Icey horror trickles down Faye’s spine.
Faye woke abruptly, her palms sweaty, her pillowcase moist against the nape of her neck. She turned to reach for the water glass and drank thirstily, swallowing loudly, her heart pounding.
It was another cloudless day and the California drought wore on, the Bay Area hills parched yellow, the streets dusty dry. Even the cracks along the sidewalks craved water. Faye looked out into the too-blue sky and drank another sip of water. I need coffee, she thought, hoping the activity of perfecting another cup would distract her from the dream, the film, the memories.
Steam drifted up towards her face, carrying an aroma of carmel, black currant, and honeycomb, or so the package told her. She thought of all the times Mom had brewed coffee for Dad, and her mind did a quick summersault. It had been a similar type of day when they all went to the coast together with the Harrisons, the sky wind-whipped from the Pacific, warm enough to warrant a beach day, but too cold to bring swimsuits. She had just turned twelve and gotten her first camera. Once the daytrip had been confirmed, she and Aubrey Harrison had spent the Friday before scheming together in English class, planning an extravagant photoshoot in the sand.
“We’re going to model for each other,” they had declared in the car ride down Highway 1, holding hands, giddy with excitement as the ocean came into view, waves cresting out far beyond the shore.
When they finally got out of the car at Gray Whale Cove, the air was deep and thunderous, waves crashing relentlessly, the wind hissing across their ears. Undeterred, they had leaned into the wind and walked towards the water.
Faye’s pulse quickened and her hand trembled, a high-pitched ringing in her ears drowning out the sound of the neighborhood kids screaming gleefully next door. She took a deep breath and sipped her coffee, letting the acidity bring her down an octave, back into the present. Her phone buzzed.
Hey, its Alma, i got ur number from Ella. Wanna talk cameras over a drink? The text read.
Faye thought of Alma’s clean, clipped fingernails, her short curly hair framing those wide intense eyes. She thought of Alma liquidating in her dream, the rush of her becoming water, of pulling her out to sea. The magnetic force of her sudden desire clashed with resurfaced fear, a previously dormant fear stirred by those carefully selected scenes -- a tsunami swallowing a car, the cliff battered mercilessly by the white frothing waves. She took a deep breath – just like her therapist taught her.
Yes, i’m free tonight. Where? She replied.
----
The bar downtown was standard, orange diffuse light casting long shadows into the corners of the room. The bitters mixed with rosemary in the cocktail were probably above average, but not worth fourteen dollars. It all felt irrelevant as Faye drank greedily, consuming the alcohol to ease her spinning mind. She wore a black mock turtleneck which typically made her feel safe and secure, but tonight it felt suffocating, its grasp firm around her neck. Alma brought her drink up to her soft pink lips, eyes watching Faye closely.
They filled the potentially awkward void with conversation, explaining their lives leading up to that moment in bullet point details. Alma was from Tennessee where, as she explained, the lush landscapes of spring begged to be filmed.
“The hills are afraid of being forgotten, so they shine bright for the camera,” Alma said, her round cheeks catching the glow of the soft light. “But I’ve always loved filming the ocean, it's so unpredictable, forever changing. So I only applied to coastal art schools and ended up here, at Berkeley.”
Faye followed Alma’s silky voice, rich and smooth like a familiar melody, each word uninhibited. She wanted to bask in the vibrations of Alma’s stories, to slow down and study the imagery of her perspectives, how such beauty was captured in her description of the unruly. She forced herself to reciprocate, telling Alma about the quirks of her Bay Area family, cousins and aunties who posed for her film portraits.
“A portrait can live forever,” Faye remarked, “a single look becoming impervious to time.” Faye felt the banality of her statement -- undeniable but lacking substance. Her mind skipped a beat as she thought of that day at the beach with the Harrisons, watching Aubrey from behind the lens, noticing the way her hair lashed about from the wind, the perfection of where her lips sloped down to meet her chin. The foaming white and blue waves had framed her smiling face, and Faye had pressed down on the shutter with a soft mechanical click.
“I’m afraid of the ocean,” Faye said, finally. “Your film brought up a lot for me.”
“Why?” Alma said bluntly, unable to conceal her curiosity.
“It’s hard to talk about,” Faye said slowly, turning to look into Alma’s endlessly present eyes, “but I haven’t been to the coast in thirteen years. I’m surprised I haven’t moved to a landlocked state at this point. Maybe I’d like Tennessee!” she laughed dryly, trying to ease the tension that spread across her ribs.
Alma studied her for a moment. “You’d love Tennessee,” she said, but didn’t ask anymore questions. There was an unsaid understanding as they ordered another drink, the social lubricant a safety-net as they ventured closer to what they wanted to happen next. The noise in the bar seemed to be closing in, buoyant voices much too loud as their knees began to touch underneath the small table, at first passing as accidental, and then coming back with intention.
“Can I kiss you?” Alma asked, her eyes full of confidence and conviction.
Faye hesitated for a moment, feeling the undertow pull her in. She took a deep breath, and released a soft, “Yes.”
She watched Alma’s pink lips come closer and closer, and could hear the ocean roaring in her ears as she leaned in, relinquishing control just enough to meet those supple lips in a delicate kiss.
---
Alma’s apartment smelled like salt and cinnamon, jars of herbs and nuts stacked in the exposed shelves in the kitchen, a small pile of dishes lingering in the sink. Alma poured each of them a tall glass of water and they drank silently. Faye felt anticipation dance across her skin, goosebumps erecting the hairs on her arm. I’m ready, I’m ready, she thought to herself, feeling the cool water cleanse her palette. She could hear the ocean ringing in her ears, and she imagined the waves curling up high only to surrender, eventually, to gravity, crashing down into soft sand.
“Wait, do I actually hear the ocean right now?” Faye said suddenly.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I can turn it off,” Alma said, hurrying into the living room. Faye followed her, and saw the ocean projected across the far wall, first a close up of water splashing across a wet rock, and then of sunlight bouncing off a still ocean surface, the water rippling eerily as the sound of persistent waves looped again, and again.
“No, it's okay,” Faye said, “I want to watch.”
They sat on the couch, holding hands and silently watched the unpredictable ocean become predictable as it yielded to Alma’s careful editing, each scene cut at designated timestamps, the many faces of the ocean looping rhythmically. Faye felt her blood move through green and blue veins, mimicking the persistent cycle of ever-changing water. She thought of how violently beautiful the ocean had been that day, how it had burst up angrily as she and Aubrey had climbed over the sharp rocks, hoping to reach the distant beach with smooth sand. A single hot tear slid down Faye’s cheek, dripping black from the mascara she had put on so carefully earlier.
“Are you okay?” Alma asked, turning. Faye nodded silently.
“Hold me, please,” Faye whispered, falling into Alma’s neck, breathing in the scent of her salty sweat mixed with coconut curl cream.
Something hard and broken began to dissolve inside Faye. With her eyes closed, she thought back to the moment before the final wave came, how the sand had glistened with the ocean pulling back over it, how the water had gathered itself in one powerful motion, rearing up high, arching forward. It crashed down on Aubrey, consuming her small body in an instant, her perfectly defined chin and smiling face disappearing. Faye had stood motionless, and then screamed and screamed and screamed.
Alma’s long fingers and calloused palms gently stroked Faye’s back, her steady touch an anchor in the liquid world of emotion. She took a deep breath and lifted her head, staring deeply into those steady brown eyes, the color of earth.
