Rock Paper Scissors
Emma E. Kemp
is outside of me again. “Where to?” he asks, though it does not sound like a question. We are both very bad at making decisions. I believe this is because neither of us want to give any part of our selves away. This makes it hard for us to move, although, slowly we do get around. We drive, choosing left and rights at random and in turn. Winding through the mountains I point out various buildings of interest; lanterns, roof tiles, hand painted signs. He never responds but I know he is listening and forming the shape of me from my words and the timbre of my voice. Often, I get more excited than the scenery warrants. “Let’s eat,” I say, looking at the sun suddenly low in the sky. We stop at a small wooden store and select sandwiches from a dirty glass counter. They are wrapped in cellophane like soft bricks. I want to be wild and adventurous but there are only three fillings, so we both end up with the same spicy tuna. We pay separately with little bundles of cash, soft with sweat from our cradling palms. He adds a paper tray of fried wontons to his bill for us to share. We sit on a bench outside, a row of parked cars in front of us and a small pot of dipping sauce between us. I think about how little we speak to each other given the proximity of our bodies and the hours we spend in this way. I wonder if it would make more sense to do these activities alone. I am conscious of the moistened bread sticking to the roof of my mouth. When the food is all gone, he takes our empty wrappers away. I consider the reduction of multiple, separate actions to a conjoined one. Back in the car he asks again where we are going. I say that we are either going towards the ocean or towards the mountains. I’m not sure which. “The ocean,” he says, and the big shimmering slate emerges. We stop at a red light directly adjacent. The light stays red for a long time, and
I think how nice it is to be presented with the fat sea and to be held there with nothing to do but stare. Small shapes disrupt the surface, people with surfboards and wetsuits and kites. Human activity of all kinds collected on the damask beach. We turn left and the sun spills a bucket of light on the water. We drive parallel to the ocean for a while and I calculate the approximate time of sunset. “We could stay here and watch it,” he says. “Maybe,” I say. I could have said any word in its place. Ahead, the road widens and splits, left for the freeway, right for beach parking. He straddles both lanes. I stay quiet. At the last moment he veers right and we park the car in silence. I take his camera from the glove box and we plod softly towards the pier. “The best place to see the sunset is from the top of the Ferris wheel.” I hear this but ignore him and keep moving. We weave among rollercoasters and bumper cars. Three men dressed in black sing the blues; one of them shouts something indiscernible and I wonder what he could have meant. I am embarrassed by all possible suggestions. Looking around, I notice everyone is wearing windbreakers and hats. The sky behind us surprises me, dark and looming, a raucous shadow on my shoulder. I watch the rain clouds clambering against hotel roofs. Looking out across the ocean however, everything is blue and luminous. We buy coffee and leave the pier, crunching on compact sand and broken shell all the way down to the sea front. The coffee feels good in my wind beaten hands. I rest my chin on the top of the cup, warming my face in the steam. My hair is batting my face from many angles. Because of this, I have to turn my head completely in order to see him, which makes me stand very still and straight, staring ahead for long periods. When I eventually turn around he is grinning. I am
54
55