Part I: The Beginning

He looked to his left, and there she sat, staring at that same bright blue abyss that rolls and rolls and crashes onto the ivory shore. Her skin was radiant, and her black, natural hair reminded him of the sea breeze courting the waves. Her knees were tucked up into her hands, and a colorful dress made from thin material rustled alongside her hair. The sight of her brought a small bead, salty like the sea ahead, into his eye. It sat stuck for a moment and then rolled down where it broke on his lower lid. Her hand cascaded between them and picked up the large coconut that held a good deal of pineapple juice and a great deal of rum. She put the straw to her lips. Even after all of these years, no matter how many times he had tasted those lips, there was still so much to feel, to explore, to understand. There was so much that he surely had missed.

She must have felt him looking at her because when she put the coconut down, she gazed back at him. The lids of her eyes gently closed and opened, like a gliding bird’s wings high on the wind. What stared back at him was a bottomless pit of love. She smiled softly and then leaned her head into his shoulder. He kissed her head and could taste the sea in her hair. No perfume or shampoo to hide the natural smell of this magnificent creature. Just the pure female form, rushing into all five of his senses with such power that he felt a sixth lurking on the brink.

Then the storm started rolling in as it does in those parts. The blue of the waves awakens as the sky fills with charcoal grey. The once calm wind begins its metamorphosis into a more vicious beast. The sky lights up with a bolt, and the thunder shouts in its wake. On the first day they were in Bimini, they made the mistake of underestimating how fast these tropical storms can touch land. They had ended up drenched and a bit shaken up by the sheer power of the thing. They shuffled to their feet, swiftly and stubborn with sadness, knowing that this was their last night in this rum-drenched paradise—this place where the sea sat like a jewel and caressed the pine-white sands—this place where they brushed away the plaque that decayed their cosmic bond.

As they walked back to the golf cart, their hands locked together, he kept his eyes on the ground. He had always been a shell fanatic, and the Bahamian beachside is by far one of the best breeding grounds for collectors like himself. Phenomenal shell pickings in these parts. As they neared the golf cart, the storm’s angry growl now pounding at their backs, his eye caught another gem. It was tiny and spiraled and perfect, the Fibonacci sequence epitomized. He quickly bent down and snatched the little guy from its sandy bed and held it up with a pinch so she could see it. She smiled and drooped her lips in that cute, sad puppy face:

“Soooo cute,” she said. He smiled and agreed, although he would have used an adjective like “badass” or “rad” to describe it. He peered inside the tiny shell, and it looked vacant. No one was home here, which meant this little shell was fair game. He stowed the little thing in the side pocket of his swim shorts, and it plopped into the pile of two or three dozen other shells. And then, he forgot about it, just like the others.

Part II: The Beginning of the End

When they got back home a few nights later, the couple made sure to put all of the shells from the Bahamas in one spot, the spot being a small bowl in the household’s office. His eyes lit up as a myriad of shells poured into the bowl. There were so many different colors, from deep, shiny blues to pure sherbert oranges, to creamy greens and powdery pinks. Each little shell fascinated him.

The following weekend, the couple strolled the high-ceiling halls of Home Depot. Their attitude toward one another had drastically taken a turn. Quite the contrast from just a week or so ago when they sat together in that now faraway paradise. There was no holding hands, no love-dazed glaze in the eyes, and no closeness of each other’s skin. Hell, there were barely even words exchanged. He was looking for a new Fine Tool, and she wanted to get some house plants. So, the couple split ways, he going to the power tool section (a.k.a. “heaven”) and she hitting the nursery.

When they met again at the self-checkout line, he had his tool, and she had a small snake plant with a tiny grey pot and plate. He rolled his eyes. Although she always bought the plants, it was always up to him to pot them and take care of them. And this occasion was no exception. Shortly after they got back home, she left the plant and pot on the counter and then left for the gym. He quickly potted the plant with some loose soil he kept in a Home Depot bucket on their top-floor porch.

The couple’s many plants held an array of tiny treasures. Things that they would stow away throughout the many years of many adventures. There were crystals from the high country, rocks from the California coast, and shells from tropical beaches. These little pieces of good times were relics, from the West Coast to the East, and many places in between. They traveled more of California than most had seen in a lifetime. Nights in San Francisco, down the 1 to Half Moon Bay, Davenport, Santa Cruz, Monterey, Carmel, Big Sur, a pit stop in Cambria, down to Santa Barbara, over to Los Angeles, and ultimately settling further east in Death Valley. Then they’d make their way back north, where the mighty Sierras stirred, from Inyo to Sequoia, up to Sierra and Stanislaus, and much time spent in Tahoe. Shasta, too. This collection of shimmering debris was much more than just a pile of geological rarities; they were memories. He smiled as his hand filled with all of these little nuggets of nostalgia. He closed his eyes, revisiting the good times, mouth curled in a grin. Then, he went to the bowl in which sat the Bahamian shells.

The heartiest-looking one was the small, spiraled shell that he had grabbed on their last day in Bimini. He plucked it from the pile of shells, brought it to the kitchen, and placed the little dude around the snake plant’s base. Then he set the small pot with the plate on a glassy slab of polished petrified wood, and around it like the rays of the sun, he set out more crystals, green jade, shards of abalone, and various different stages of quartz. It sat centerpiece on the couple’s dining room table.

Most nights, he’d sleep on the couch with the TV on and she alone, in the dark stillness of their bedroom. They rarely talked, mostly because when she tried to talk, he brushed her away, saying he hadn’t the time for gossip, or chit chat, or feelings. He never had time for anything. But he always found time for his dreams, his nightmares, his life. And there was always time for what he had to say.

One day, while he was sipping his coffee at the dining room table before rushing off to work, he looked at the plant and thought his eyes must have been deceiving him. He swore he had put that little shell near the center of the plant, but now it sat next to the inside edge of the pot’s rim. To be sure, he picked up the little shell and looked inside. Empty. He carefully placed the shell back near the center of the plant, took out his phone, snapped a picture of it, and then noticed the time. Shit! I’m late! He scurried out of the house, hot coffee scalding his arm as he hurried to lock the door and rush down the stairs.

After he got home and hauled his arsenal of power tools up into the small 2-bedroom apartment, he grabbed a cold Coors Light from the fridge and popped it open with his lighter. As he took a long, much-welcomed slug, his eyes found the small snake plant on the table. He slammed the beer down and rushed closer to see if what he was seeing was real. Then he fumbled his phone out of his pocket, dropped it, picked it back up, and manically opened his photos. The shell in the photo sat snug up against the plant’s base, but now the shell teetered on the far edge of the pot’s rim. This time, the shell was not empty. Peeking out as if trying to understand the giant eyes that were staring down at it, a small sea snail peered up at him. Ho-le-shit, he thought. That thing is alive!

When she got home from the gym, he greeted her excitedly. An eagerness washed over her eyes. This was unusual. He gently shuffled her to the table, phone in hand, and pointed at the picture on the phone and then to the small plant. Then at the phone again, and then at the plant again.

“Looooook,” he said. “That little shell is a snail, and it’s alive.” As if in reply to his remark, the sea snail emerged, looked up at the couple, and started slowly slithering down the side of the pot. Her eyes opened in astonishment.

“Whaaaaaat?!” She exclaimed.

“I named it Gary, like the pet snail from Sponge Bob SquarePants. What do you think?” At first, her eyes stiffened. This was usually when they’d start bickering. Arguments often exploded from stupid shit, like what to name a fucking snail. But after a moment’s thought, she sighed and smiled.

“Garrrrrr-eeeee,” she said, as if she had never said the name before and was trying to work out its sound. “That’s perfect,” she said. That night, they slept together. They even made love.

Part III: The End

The small 2-bedroom apartment was nearly empty, aside from a few boxes of his books, his office, and some clothes he owned. He picked up her last box and heaved it up onto his shoulder. She scurried up behind him with bags of clothes hanging around her shoulders. She was juggling a few of the couple’s smaller plants, including “The Gary Plant,” as it became known in their household. This would all blow over, he thought to himself as he stepped down the stairs, her footsteps clicking behind him. This had happened before, and like then, they would somehow, some way, get through it.

Now he was in the carport. The hatch of the Toyota RAV4 popped open with a beep as he approached the vehicle. He slid the box into the back of the car and then started to panic. He had a mere week to get out of the apartment, and he hadn’t even figured out where he was going. Again, he was thinking about all the shit that was stuck inside of him instead of seeing what was loose and fleeting, right in front of him. Then, from behind, a crash of porcelain.

“Oh nooooo,” she shrieked. When he turned around, he saw her, panic-eyed and lips trembling, about to cry. On the ground was the small grey pot, now spread out in a heap of broken porcelain, dirt, and rocks. She started to cry, and for a few seconds, they just stood across from each other in the midnight carport, he silent and she weeping. He bent down and picked up the little snake plant and tried to gather as many of the small rocks as he could. Then he raised the plant up to her.

“Shhhhhhh,” he lulled, “it’s OK. The plant is fine. Just put it in another pot, and it’ll be just fine. See?” She glanced at the plant, then looked back at the ground, her head in her hands, the tears uncontrollable now.

“Oooooooh. Look!” She bent down and carefully picked up a small, slug-like splat. She brought it up so he could see, her head down, sobbing loudly now. “It’s… it’s… it’s…” Sobs and sniffles. “Ohhh. Gar-eeeee.” Now, her tear-torn eyes met his, and at that moment, he loved her more than ever. He gently placed his hands on her shoulders, caressing them kindly.

“Look, hun, it will be OK. We’ve got this. It’s just temporary. That’s all. Hey…” Her head was down again, so he lowered his head so that their eyes met. When she looked at him, that softness was there, hiding beneath all the pain from what he had done. He brought his head back up, trying to get her to follow his gaze and bring her head up along with his. “Hey,” his hands still on her shoulders, his voice wooing. “Hey. Shhhh. Don’t cry. It’s going to be OK.” Then she broke, grabbed hold of him, and buried her face into his shoulder, now sobbing more than he had ever seen her cry in the near decade that they had been married. He closed his eyes and swallowed back his own tears. “Hey, hey,” he whispered, now speaking to himself as well. “It’s going to be OK.” He paused and then said, “I love you.” At those words, she pulled away from him, and the softness in her eyes was replaced with hatred; tear-drenched, jagged rage. She sniffled and wiped her nose, pushed down the hatch of the RAV4, and got into the driver’s seat, saying nothing. He stood still as she slammed the driver’s door shut.

The brake lights of her car were shining red as she sat idle, waiting for the slow, creaky automated gate to open off to the left. He struggled to keep down his own tears now, and a few slipped out, blurring the brake lights of her car. Reality came, fists up and belligerent, and he knew now that the preceding moment may very well have been the last time he’d see her— touch her—hold her… He breathed deeply and closed his eyes.

For a moment, he was there again, on that Bimini blue beach. That cool, almost turquoise sea churning and churning, chopping up the shore, white and smooth, except for the colorful shells scattered about. The smell of her, the feel of her hand in his, her dark eyes swimming in love, her laughter, her affection, her lust for him, bubbling and open-armed. The taste of the salty air rushed into him, and he felt the funniness that comes with just the right amount of locally distilled Bahamian rum. Then, off on the horizon, the clouds began to gather and grow thicker, darker, angrier. Right before the storm touched the shore, he opened his eyes. The brake lights of her car were gone. For a moment, he stood in the silence of the late-night carport and then looked down at what was left of Gary the Bahamian Snail. Just like their love, Gary was broken and gone for good.

As he walked back up to the apartment, the only sounds around him were his footsteps and the muffled engines of a passing plane rushing by, somewhere far off, above. When he stepped back into the near-vacant apartment, he set his phone down in the kitchen. He did not cry. Nor did he chatter to himself as he did when he was nervous or upset. Instead, he dragged his feet into what was once their living room and sat down on the floor, cross-legged. And there he sat, unmoved until early morning. Just him, the glow of a small lamp on the floor, and the four empty walls around him.

Slits of sun-soaked rays sliced between the vinyl vertical blinds. He arose from his sitting, the whites of his eyes dosed with iron veins. With his finger, he slightly moved a blind aside and peeked out with that subconscious paranoia that plagues any sleepless mind. The morning light cast shadows of leaf silhouettes on the bare concrete of the small porch. His heart was now a little harder than before, and his hope, a little weaker than before. He closed his eyes. Breathed. Then he opened the blinds and let the sun pour in.