At the edge of the sea we sat. The dark Mississippi night rolling in on surf and sand bugs, the beer was warm, and we wore bikinis and promised our love for one another would never die and pinky swore we’d never fuck each other’s boyfriends. Biloxi where the boys have bonfires, where the beer is free and flowing, and the girls get drunk and say things they forget.
It was 1999. Our shit hotel across the street was only for sleeping. We sat in the water, telling stories about the Jones on T and thought we were wise for our years. Did we think we were clever? Did we think we had gotten one over on the whole damn world, that we had some secret to living life that could only be attained by the chose ones, us? Maybe. It was no secret we had maddening Ninja-like moves on territory. And while our five combined ages were less than one hundred years and certainly we didn‘t know much: We knew some things for sure; like how to put on an act that would convince at least ten people a day to buy a magazine.
As we sat and watched the surf come in, the blue light from Treasure Bay the only light in the sky, the water so dirty, but we didn’t even notice, but I notice it now, looking back, the water so dirty and the casino’s light the only light in the sky. The air almost green with envy at our carefree ways, our naivety and wet legs witnessed by the black cherry and sycamore trees. The heat clinging to the air, coating our lungs. We passed a cigarette around and I know I was the only one who searched for the moon in vain that night and went back to that dark, little hotel room too early because the only thing more depressing to me right then was the beach.
Those girls, those lying bitches. I wonder what they’re up to these days.