Out of Focus

She sleeps in late the next day and then drives to the aquarium in Monterey and stares out into the depths of the ocean and watches schools of silvery barracudas swim by and giant manta rays skim across the bottom of the ocean bed and knows that no matter how many cliffs she jumps off, she will always be intimidated and overwhelmed by the sea. 

She learns about jellyfish, how they have no central nervous system, no respiratory system, no circulatory system, no brain, so no thoughts.  They just are.  And she sits on a bench in front of the glass and watches them and thinks how peaceful it must be.  They don’t have a want or a need or a care in the world, they just float around with the current, sucking up plankton, aimless.  The only sense they have is touch.  The lights in the tank change colors and so do the jellyfish - pink, then purple, then blue, then green.  She sits and listens to The Concretes through her headphones and watches them dance and sway until a school tour comes through and little children in matching uniforms start pounding on their tank.  As she stands to leave, she places one hand flat on the glass and whispers, sorry.

She picks up coffee at the Firefly Café and the owner says she looks lonely, but she’s not and she tips him two dollars and drives to the marine research lab at the university and pets some starfish and then goes outside and chain smokes on the edge of a cliff, watching one lone surfer through the fog as he gets pummeled by waves again and again and wonders if it’s one she met last night.  On her way back into town she stops at Natural Bridges State Park and she pulls her hood up around her head and walks down the hill to the water.

There’s a tent set up on the edge of the shore and the nylon slaps against itself in the wind.  Fog obscures the big, stone bridge, but she can see its outline and the shadows of birds circling above.  Sitting down outside the reach of the lapping waves with her knees pulled up to her chest, she thinks about smoking a cigarette, but can’t find the energy.  She wraps her arms around her legs and rests her chin on her knees and tries to separate the different shades of grey in the sky.  A butterfly crosses in front of her face.  Its orange is vivid against the pale, bleak fog, and she reaches out to it.  It flutters past her fingertips, behind her, into the trees. 

She rubs the sand from her legs and walks into the wood.  It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust and she trips over a root and falls to the ground.  It’s spongy and mossy and littered with wet leaves, and she pulls herself to her feet and wipes her muddy hands on her jacket.  The butterfly is gone, but the trees are towering and pale and spindly and she brushes her hand across their bark as she walks, staring up into their leaves at the hazy sky peeking through the branches and the low hanging fog.  One of the leaves falls, but it falls too slowly and she sees that it’s not falling, it’s flying. 

She realizes the orange leaves are butterflies, hanging, quiet and still.  She knows that she shouldn’t, but she reaches towards the nearest tree and runs her fingers across the very tips of the orange leaves and they fly up in a cloud.  Thousands of wings beat against each other.  The swirling, orange leaves make the air feel different around her, softer.  She stretches her arms out to her sides and lifts her face to the sky and watches them flutter above.  Their wings whisper in the air and she wishes she could put that sound in a jar and carry it around with her because soon the butterflies swarm and cluster together on their branches, quivering and shaking as they settle into a blanket over the chalky bark, and the air is still again. She drops her arms back down to her sides and smiles.  The light reflecting off the fog makes the forest seem brighter and sunlight slices in through the shadows.  She can hear the ocean and the seagulls, but they seem far away and she sits down on the damp ground and lets her mind wander as she smokes cigarette after cigarette, waiting for the leaves to fly.

That night she decides to go out and puts on a dress and heels and walks over the bridge, through the ever-present fog, downtown.  There are a lot of people on Pacific Avenue, laughing and tripping and loud.  She goes into the first bar she passes and buys a bottle of Blue Moon and sits down outside at the only empty table. 

She lights a cigarette and pulls out her cell phone.  There’s a text message from Des,

Just wondering how you’re doing, wanted you to know I’m thinking about you,

and she puts her phone back in her pocket and looks up as someone sits down beside her.  She starts to say something, but stops herself.  The man is staring straight ahead.  His face is unshaven and his eyes are tired and his cheeks look hollow as he sucks hard on his cigarette.  He blows out a cloud of smoke and after a moment says,

I killed someone last night.