Hungover on the train to Nice, not looking forward to hiking 10 miles into town with our giant packs. Passing miles of turquoise ocean. I lean towards Drew. His eyes are glazed, like a donut dipped in glue.
“We could probably just get off at the next stop,” I say. “You know, go to the beach.”
Drew has wanted to be on the beach all morning. He didn’t understand the desire until this very moment, but now that it’s bloomed in his chest like the spark of Prometheus’ flame, it feels like he’s been enduring desire’s burning necessity for eons.
Nice blows. Drew doesn’t know if that’s true, exactly, but he thinks it, trusts it deep in his core. Nice is a dirty fucking groin compared to the ocean that is so blue it might actually be a crayon. Drew wants to get off this train and go lay by the sea so badly that he might die if he doesn’t. He might already be dead. He might as well be dead since the ocean is out there and he is here, in a train, a stupid French train, graffiti staining the back of the hard seat in front of him, dense, smelly backpack like a dead mountain lion on his lap.
“Yeah, we could do that,” Drew says.
And the beach is unbelievable bliss.