UNDERNEATH THE

UNDERNEATH THE NIGHT’S SKY: A SEA-SALT BREEZE

Victoria Lowery

“Chick,” the sound of a lighter sparks up a Newport 100 cigarette. The dense smoke slowly creeps out, filling the bright-red Toyota Prius. “Ugh, crack a window,” Victoria mutters under her breath, gagging at the burnt stench that’s enveloped in her mouth. Her best friend, Roy, turns his head and laughs. Roy was a peculiar man, caught up in the throes of youth and rebellion. The top layer of his hair is dyed jet black, lazily swooping it all on the top of his head, and the complete underneath was shaved. He is slightly overweight from his lack of exercise and love of beer, and always wears loud-colored clothing, flaunting his unique style. No matter how strange his look progresses, Victoria loves him anyways. Her love grows more and more as he learns to express himself. When he was a child, the only thing he did was make other people happy, at the expense of his own happiness. He never stood up for himself or expressed himself the way he wanted to, but Victoria got to watch him grow into a man who deserved to put himself first, to scream his personality from the top of his lungs. His uniqueness is the epitome of strength – a man not hiding himself from the world but becoming the embodiment of his resolves. In a world like this, expressing himself, is the mightiest feat. Roy’s soft-green eyes peak out through his thick framed glasses at Victoria, “When are you going to get over me smoking,” he asks jokingly. Victoria shakes her head and laughs. “Don’t smoke yourself to death,” she says mockingly, wagging her finger at him. Fourteen hours deep into this car ride from Wisconsin to Galveston, Texas, and Roy’s almost smoked a whole a pack, cigarette after cigarette. “I’m going to go crazy if I hear that damn lighter flick again,” Victoria thinks, tension building in her shoulders. They pull up to a Valero gas station, a gas station they’ve never seen nor heard of before. The gas station had a soft-blue sign out front with Valero spelled chaotically on it in white, and the lettering looked like it had been stolen from a ‘90s dance-exercise VHS tape. Victoria jumps out of the cramped Prius, stretching her entire body, feet to the ground and hands touching the sky. Her body sings out in relief as every vertebra in her back cracks, and her legs un-cramp. The cement blocks on her shoulder’s dissipate as she rolls her shoulders back. As they enter the retro gas station, they notice blue streaks of color are painted on the white walls, and electric hot-pink jagged lines shoot through them.

Victoria Lowery The aisles are littered with burst of colors from the snacks and drinks alike. Victoria and Roy’s eyes meet and with a head nod, they both know what they want – a Monster. They make their way through the maze of aisles and approach the energy drinks. There was a plethora of options: coffee, fruity, or tea-flavored. Victoria is quick to decide, practical in nature. She doesn’t care much for “extra.” She is fine with the original and doesn’t like to waste time deciding which flavor would complement her mood. Roy, on the other hand, flamboyant as always, sifted through the flavors. Will it be pineapple this time, or coffee, berry, or lemon tea? What flavor will complement his day or bolster his spirit? As he picks one up, he sets it down, indecisive as ever. His thick pointed finger jumps between so many, as if he is singing eeney-meeny-miney-moe in his head. Finally, the finger lands on an off-white can, with a frosted layer on it. The monster symbol is ice blue as if to make the entire can look like it was dug out of an iceberg. Pineapple flavored it is, a smile of relief now on his face. As they approach the registers to get in line, they notice an older man standing in front of them. “What a strange appearance he has,” Victoria thinks. The man is maybe 50 to 60 and is wearing an off-white, long-sleeved, button-up shirt, with small striped peach lines intersecting on it. It is tightly tucked into his bootcut jeans over his beer belly. His dark-tan belt is holding up his soft-blue Levi jeans with light-white lines cracking through the fabric. The jean pant legs are stuffed into tight boots that nearly reach to his knees. The boots come to a round point, and fine-tan thread outline the sides and creates an intricate pattern where his calf is. Alligator-skin patterns appear on the boots, soft-orange and dark-brown. When you hear a stereotype about an area, you usually chalk it up to myth, legend, or a rude analysis on a certain type of person, but not here! This man is a stereotypical Texan, his grey-handlebar mustache hangs over his staunch-pinched lips, and his skin is weather-and-worn from the beating sun. Does this man own a farm or have cattle? How Texan is he? A slight chuckle emerges from Victoria. The Texan approaches the register and checks out, buying a cigar from behind the counter and gas for his older beat-up Ford pick-up truck. Victoria and Roy approach the register next, hastily paying to leave. They both jump back into the car to endure the last bit of this long drive, excitement building within their chests. Roy looks over at Victoria, a full grin adorning his face. “Thirty more minutes, and we’re there!” he says. Victoria rolls her window down and the thick 90-degree weather blows in, making her long mahogany-brown hair flutter in the breeze. As the breeze blows in, the slightest hint of sea-salt is carried on the wind. The city starts to break apart, and there it is – the ocean. Once the Prius is parked, they jet out of the car, running towards the beach. The moment Victoria hits the sand, her feet sink in, and a chilled breeze

UNDERNEATH THE NIGHT’S SKY: A SEA-SALT BREEZE carried off the ocean blows her hair back as the sun beats down warming her cool air-conditioned skin. She approaches the water and sits down where the tide meets the shore. As the waves come in, her body rocks with the motion of the water, getting pulled in and pushed away. When the tide recedes, it exposes a treasure trove of bright-colored shells and rocks that bedazzle the soft-tan colored sand. Victoria scouts the land around her – the beach is empty. It is just her and Roy. How could this be? On such a lovely warm day, why would no one be here with them? Maybe in Texas, people are so used to being by the water that it doesn’t excite them anymore, doesn’t give them cause to go out. If Victoria and Roy lived there, they would visit the ocean almost everyday if they could. Victoria rolls her head back and closes her eyes, absorbing the sun shining down. The breeze softly wraps around her body, and the water washes up and down her legs. She feels little particles of sand swirling in the water, tracing along her skin, and a seagull flies by overheard, squawking as it goes. Victoria stands up and decides to walk along the shore, admiring the beauty of the setting. The sky is a soft baby-blue with clouds smeared across it, like cotton balls that have been pulled apart. White-sea foam dances on top of the ocean, connected like an intricate spider’s web and ripples of waves roll in, leaving smooth indents on the beaten sand. The sand swiftly morphs to the tide’s shape, dancing a romantic waltz. Their bodies are pressed together moving in perfect synchronicity, slowly matching each other’s steps. As one steps forward, the other steps back. This is the unison of the land and sea, the meeting point of two star-crossed lovers. This beauty is what painters capture in their artwork, what poets write about. Beauty like this is why people believe heaven is a place, something like this could only be created by the gods. As the sun slowly sets, the soft-white moon peaks out and the stars start sparkling. Victoria sits down on her beach towel, gazing at the setting sun, while Roy’s off in the distance, standing in the ocean, cigarette in hand. She lays down, happy it’s night. No matter how much she loves the day, she loves the night more. There’s something so exotic about the quietness of the sleeping world, covered in darkness, while the cool-white light of the moon shines down. She closes her eyes and listens to the melodic sound of the ocean. To Victoria, there’s nothing more perfect then being by the sea, laying underneath the night’s sky, as sea-salt hangs in the breeze.