The Lovers by Vendela Vida Page B

bought a jar of honey from another woman. Each transaction took place over the transom of the driver’s door window. The women seemed grateful, but she felt silly. What was she going to do at the beach with a jar of honey?
    There was no shade in the Knidos parking lot, and the heat enveloped her like a flannel coat. She passed the restaurant, and with small footsteps—even walking was exhausting—made her way to the beach. She sat on the sand with her water and bread and looked for the boy, for his shells. He was nowhere in sight, and Yvonne was surprised by her own disappointment.
    She broke off small pieces of bread and ate them slowly. As the day accosted her, she could smell stale wine leaving her body. Yvonne sipped from her water bottle until it was empty and grunted as she lifted herself to her feet and walked toward the sea. She dipped her toes in the small wave that fizzled on the shore. The chill, the warmth. She waded in.
    When the water was waist-high, she dove in and swam every stroke she knew. She kicked out, out, out with no destination in mind. Ahead and to her left, she saw something white. She turned. A kickboard floating, with no one in sight. It rose and fell with the water, and she began to swim toward it. The next time she looked up she saw a boy hoisting himself onto the kickboard. It was her boy. She waved her arms as though signaling to an airplane above.
    The boy looked in her direction, lifted a hand, andpointed to the shore. Yvonne made it back there first, and stood on the beach, waiting for him. She could see he was balancing the shells he had found on the front of the kickboard. He kicked from behind, keeping the board steady. The shells rattled but none fell. When the water became shallow, he slid off the board carefully and carried it like a tray. All of it—the kicking, the way he made his way out of the water—was so effortless and assured. He walked toward Yvonne, smiling his big white smile, his eyes bright. They had no method of greeting but this—wide smiles, nods. He began to lay the shells out before her, in neat rows.
    “Lovely,” she said, examining the shiniest one. “Nice to see you,” she added, unable to contain herself. She was so happy to be with him.
    “Nice to see you,” he said, imitating her.
    They were both silent for a moment, looking at the shells between them.
    “Oh, I brought you something,” she said, and offered him the elephant that had come with the paper towels. She had packed it in her bag. He looked at it, unimpressed, and as he held it in his hand she saw what a ridiculous offering it was. A baby’s toy. She took it back from him and extended the bag of almonds, which seemed to please him.
    To break the quiet, she told him about the owl in her house. She didn’t mind that he probably couldn’t understand any of what she was saying; he was an attentive listener. It was possible, she thought, that he liked the sound of her voice. She had a good speaking voice—Peter called itsoothing—and a small part of why she had become a teacher had to do with the way others responded when she spoke. Why wouldn’t her voice sound just as good to someone who couldn’t understand what she was saying? It might sound better.
    The boy ate her almonds while she spoke. He ate them one at a time, carefully, unselfishly, not like a boy at all.
    “Can I treat you to lunch?” Yvonne offered. “I’m starving,” she said. Now that the wine seemed to have left her body, she wanted to replace it with food, with vegetables and rice. “Lunch?” she said again, and pointed first to the restaurant and then to her stomach.
    The boy nodded. Today he was wearing long blue surf shorts. He pulled a tank top over his head, and looked down at the words: MIAMI : CATCH A FISH , hoping Yvonne would approve. She smiled, and, satisfied, he put on his sandals. They were blue and said rooster on the wide plastic straps that crossed over the tops of his small feet. The boy gestured