yellow washes

Noah pulled into the parking lot. He circled around the empty lot. Soon it would fill with vans and trucks with racks of surfing gear, sails, and wetsuits would hang and drip.
He got out and walked in circles, sliding his flip-flops on the sandy asphalt. The sky above was blue, calm water, but the horizon was growing darker with the promise of a perfect storm and strong sailing winds. His stomach tingled, not unlike pregame butterflies when he played high-school football and worried about getting crushed by a Division 1 recruit, but those feelings were fun. There was a reward of winning and the thrill of the game.
This tingling was unknown and scattered. His thoughts flailed around from the logistics of getting his windsurfing gear off his roof rack to memories of Cassandra in his living room a few weeks ago. Scattered in the hills. She said it with disgust.
He put his hand on her waist and she pushed it away. “What?”
“I’m late.”
He reached for her hand. She held his hand, but she didn’t squeeze his hand.
“How late?”
“Three weeks.” “Wonderful,” he said and drew her near.
“Is it?”
“Could be.”
She pulled her hand away.

He massaged the ring in his pocket. He bought it two days ago. At first it was an easy idea—just an engagement ring, one of the decent ones in the shop window. But as he looked and talked with the shop clerk, his standards changed, new considerations grew, and a five-thousand dollar budget ballooned to over thirty thousand. Its gold came from a Roman court. Second century Rome.
But what would she say? Too soon. We’re not ready. It could go either way.
She’d sigh. Thirty-one thousand for a wedding band? But we’re renting right now. Is that your worry? Didn’t she have confidence? He could go and get a cheaper ring. But then she wouldn’t want to show it off. She needed to brag about it at brunch. Restore his ability to feel comfortable at their weekly gatherings. Those horrid Sundays at her parent’s club by the marina. Sitting at a table looking over sailboats tied along the docks. The silver table had pewter silverware on beige linen napkins and silver cups which were heavy, presumably because of frequent winds. He reached for a pitcher of water to fill his glass. As he did, he caught her glance for a moment too long. Her left eye fluttered and spasmed. A glare flashed in her eyes.
“Did you wash your hands?” she said, giving a side glance to Cassandra while Maya pretended not to notice.
“Yea,” he mumbled and slowly poured so the ice cubes didn’t rattle. He glanced around the table of twelve, all who were mildly amused with tilted ears.
“No he didn’t,” she whispered, loud enough for the table to hear. Everyone was silent. Sounds of metal clanging against masts in the background. He took a sip and pretended not to notice as they kept whispering in lowered tones.
“Could you pass,” she paused, spine straightened, forced a smile, “Maya, could you reach over him and pass the water.”
“You can still wash your hands. They’ve got soap by the sink. Lather for thirty seconds,” she rubbed her hands together.
He smiled as though she were joking.
“Could you wash your hands? “Maya?” she shot her a look. Maya was blushing like her plum blouse and kicked him under the table.
He got up and avoided eye contact and went into the clubhouse. He stood at the sink and lathered his hands. As he rinsed off, he managed to sprinkle the front of his khaki pants. Idiot, he fumed at his reflection. Disgraceful, he muttered as he walked back to the table, where he sat down with eyes on his waist. Amber’s left eye started fluttering. She covered her mouth and whispered to her a guy next to her. He shook his head.

Amber had a vaccine injury that left her with an odd side effect and a fetish that led her to OnlyFans—but she lacked subscribers. Maybe that’s why she was lashing out, or was it because she had a PhD from CalTech and thought she was too good for him, or that he didn’t belong at her country club which wasn’t all that special, truth be told, it could’ve been in central Nebraska, just another country club of a middle-class suburb. Possibly upper-middle class, but everyone was working, not a lot of fuck-you money, more like rows of servant quarters. Maybe a few doctors with their own clinics, or lawyers with their own practice, but most were looking over their shoulder, afraid to rock the boat, swimming in debt.

He sat his LandCruiser, leaned back and looked up—he’d had the roof replaced with a glass dome so they could watch the sky without bug bites. She hated bugs. Scratching was unromantic. Later that night, he’d open a cooler with a red fish, reminiscent of their diving trip off the tip of Izu in Japan, where they swam with hammerhead sharks. At one point he looked down at a descending spiral that disappeared in black—he gasped and panicked. Bubbles plumed around as he flailed. He looked up. Maya’s long legs and hips swayed under the sun-bleached surface. He followed and calmed his breath.

They went to a cafe on a cliff looking over the sea with a white-capped Fuji in the background. The owner gestured to a boat on the horizon and pointed to the set menu with fish of the day—he catches and cleans, she explained. That day was Alfonsino, or red bream. She grilled it. It was flaky and firm and sweet with hints of nut. She served it on a tray with other dishes: rice, miso soup, an array of mountain vegetable roots, seaweed sautéed with mushrooms and chili. The dishes were from a local potter in the style of Rosanjin. Maya looked across the table and asked him if they’d grow old like this. He said yes, if he didn’t pass early from colon cancer, as many of his relatives did, then yes. Her eyebrows came together—she’d pray for clean passage. He drifted to sleep.
A hand pounded on his window. He sat up. It was Kurt, curly red hair bobbing, big toothy smile with something green stuck between his front teeth.

He opened a green cooler in the back of his van. The red fish lay in crushed ice. He set the cooler in the back of his LandCruiser.
“Thanks,” he said and handed him a hundred dollars. Kurt folded the money and put it in his pocket.
“So, where’s this Alfonsino from?”
“Snapper, actually.”
“Snapper?”
“Red snapper, yes. Beautiful fish.”
“I know, but … Kurt, man. I need the Alfonsino.”
“I doubt you could tell the difference.”
“But that’s not the point.”
“Isn’t it?”
“It’s for Maya.”
“I doubt she’d know the difference.”
“We ate it together in Japan. It’s a special memory.”
“Was it the fish or something else?”
“I want to tell her that I got this fish.”
“So tell her.”
“And lie?”
“Think she’ll check?”
“I can’t do that.”
“Aren’t you two getting married?”
“I hope so.”
“And you’re worried about lying?”
Noah sighed.
“You don’t sound grateful.”
“You said you could get it.”
“I thought I could.”
“You said you know a Japanese guy in the kitchen.”
“Turns out, he’s not from Japan. He’s still a master chef. I can attest to that.”
“But that’s not the part I care about.”
“Besides, the fish isn’t unique to Japanese cuisine.”
“I don’t care about the origin. I just want the fish. The red bream. The Alfonsino.”
“Well, relax, dude. It’s still excellent. Maybe it’ll go with that wine you’re saving.”
Noah paused and hadn’t considered the green bottle in his garage from his father’s wine cellar, presumably a Bordeaux or one of its cousins as that’s what he liked.
“Where’s it from?”
“Don’t know.”
“Talked recently?”
“No.”
“Still weird that he didn’t tell you the vintage. Seems like something he’d say.”
“You never met him.”
“Seems like something most people would talk about. He had a wine cellar. I’m assuming he wasn’t storing boxed wine.”
“Yea, well, whatever. He wasn’t all that communicative at the end,” he thought of telling Kurt about the time the feds showed up and hauled everything away in boxes, but it wasn’t the time.

They played tic-tac-toe in the sandy asphalt with their big toes.

“So you got her a ring?”
“Yea.”
“Let me see.”
Noah took the gold ring from his pocket and held it up.
“Looks expensive.”
“It was.”
“How much?”
“More than I thought. It’s from a Roman court.”
“Ha. Seriously?” Kurt exaggerated his laugh. “You fell for that?”
“I had it refit.”
Kurt shook his head. “Let me look.”
Noah handed it to him.
Kurt bit on it and inspected. “Seems real.”
“Hey, asshole,” he reached for his ring. Kurt stiff-armed him and held it away.
“There is a reason people bite. There is something you can learn. Here, let me show you.” He put it between his teeth.
“Give it.”
“Relax.”
“It’s not a toy.”
“Kinda.”
“Fucking give it,” Kurt tucked into standing fetal position. Noah punched his kidney. Kurt winced.
“I need that.”
“Oh,” he said with a gag. He held out his arm. “I swallowed.”
“Shut up.”
He put his finger in mouth and gagged and bent over and hacked it into is palm.
“Disgusting.”
“Sorry,” he wiped it on his leg. “Let me clean it with alcohol,” he gestured to the back of his van.
Kurt opened his rear door and fumbled through make-shift shelves, pushing rolls of tape, empty bottles, and so on onto his dirty futon where he lived on weekends.
Noah’s pone rang. He stepped back and answered.
“Noah,” Maya’s voice cracked. “How could … you?”
“What?” he walked away from Kurt. He went into his truck and closed the windows to shutter the background surf.
“Maya. What happened?”
“You uploaded them.”
“No.”
“Who else knew?”
“I would never.”
“You’re sharing them with strangers?”
“Never.”
“Liar.”
“No. I would never. Listen. Let me—”
“No. It’s finished. Don’t come,” she hung up.
He called her back. It rang three times then cut to voicemail. He called again, straight to voicemail. He called again but only got a beeping sound.
Kurt knocked on the window. He turned to him but didn’t know what to say.
“What happened?”
His eyes widened and lips slightly parted as he thought of how to explain.
“Noah? Something happen? Roll down the window.”
He pressed the window button, the engine wasn’t running. He put his key in the ignition and started the diesel purr.
“Where’re you going?”
He rolled down the window.
“Maya called.”
“I know. Is she hurt?”
He nodded.
“Car accident?”
“No.”
“Bike?”
“No.”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“Somebody … I don’t know. There’s been some confusion.”
“What’d she say?”
“I, umm. I don’t know.”
“You seem to know.”
“A video got out.”
“Of what?”
“Umm. Well, she’s a bit of an auteur.”
“A what?”
“She makes films.”
“So what your saying,” he paused and smiled.
“Don’t be crass.”
“So what? Hardly unique.”
“Yea, but.”
“Did you share it with someone?”
“No.”
“So forget it. Dude. What the fuck? It’s coming. It’s gonna be great,” he turned to the beach. “The wind is coming. It’ll be dead tomorrow. Deal with it then.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re not leaving.”
Noah stared vacantly while white-knuckling the steering wheel with thoughts of being strapped to a rusty pole in their garage. So cold and sharp. The back of his head bound, his mouth gagged. Whipped. Wax drips. Kurt opened the door. Noah didn’t move. Kurt reached for the keys, shut it off, and tried to take the keys, but Noah wrestled them away. “I need to explain. She needs to see my eyes and know I’m being honest.”
“But,” the freckles on his brow pulled together, “what will you say that won’t just fuck it up more?”
“I’ll explain.”
“Will that fuck things up more?”
“Not if it’s true.”
“Or,” he pointed again at the surf, “imagine the wind.” His frizzy hair fluttered in a gust of salty wind, “See. It’s coming. Gone tomorrow.”
“I gotta go.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“Give me the ring.”
Kurt took a step back.
“Hey,” he slapped the side of his truck. “I’m not in the mood.”
“Noah. Trust me. You’ve got that look. Your eyes come together,” he mimicked by scrunching his red eyebrows. “Signals a drop in IQ, which you can hardly afford.”
“Give me the fucking ring.”
“Is this the day to give her a ring?”
“Give it.”
“It’s a good question.”
“Let me go.”
“You’re gonna leave me hanging out here? Huh?”
“You’re fine.”
“How would you know? Huh?” shakes his head. “Leaves his buddy hanging. What about your karma? Huh? Think of how you’ll live on.” “I’ve gotta talk to her.”
“And fuck things up more?”
“Kurt. The ring. I’ve gotta handle this. She needs to see me look her in the eye and then she’ll know.”
“Handle what? She gets like this. You’re reinforcing her tantrums. What would Skinner say?”
“Shut up,” he held out his hand. Kurt set the ring in his palm. He put in his pocket and peeled out of the lot.

He pulled into their driveway and looked around. The neighbors were gone. He slowly walked up the front walk while eyeing the windows and doors for signs of a break-in. He put his key in and unlocked the door. He turned off the alarm. He went room to room and checked the windows and doors. Nothing seemed off. He checked his drawers —all his cash and keys and other valuables were there. He found Maya’s notebook still under the coffee table. He went to their bedroom and put his hand on her closet door but let it go. He wouldn’t cross the line and enter her space. Plus, it seemed unmolested.
He was about to go but then turned to their bed—the red scarf was no longer wrapped around the bedpost.

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