The Sun Through The Clouds

Mitch stood in the sand and let the waves wash over his black leather dress shoes.

"These are the highest quality Italian leather," the saleswoman told him, "They'll never crease from day-to-day office wear."

"What if I wear them in the ocean?" Mitch asked.

"Why would you do a silly thing like that? Now, size 10 fit all right?"

The salt water licked at the polished black leather, it swirled and eddied around his heels. It snuck over the cuffs and soaked his black nylon socks. He wiggled his toes and felt the wet insoles squish.

It was cloudy, but the heat of the sun pushed through the thin grey veil. This was Santa Monica after all, the sun was relentless.

Mitch took off his glasses, the thick-framed ones with the designer's name printed in silver along the temples, and dropped them onto the wet sand at his feet. He unbottoned his shirt and dropped it too, delicately on to the sand. His belly ballooned within his white undershirt, stretching the cotton tight under his yellowed armpits.

He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and gave up the bills to the breeze; $1's, $5's, $20's, $100's. With a flick of his wrist he sent his Driver's License spinning like a frisbee out into the surf. It floated there for a moment, visible only as a small blur to Mitch, and then it was lost under the next breaking wave.

The waves beat on and on. His trousers were soaked to the knee. He pulled a small scissors from his pocket and cut off large chunks of grey hair that he had grown to shoulder length and heretofore kept healthy with fish oils and Vitamin E. The strands of hair, long wispy pieces of his DNA, he too set free on the wind.

He felt the urge to drive the scissors into his thighs, the backs of his hands, his ribcage, his eyeballs, his ears, the roof of his mouth. But, no. They would allow him on the ferry soaked, shirtless and bald maybe, but not likely bloody and blind.

"Yes," he said, "size 10 fits fine."