It's sometime after 1 am when we leave Pick Me Up. There's the clear understanding that we don't want to end the night, but have neither a destination nor a plan: the best way to start an adventure. I haven't had a drink since well before departing the Hungry Brain, but I'm high on the lateness of the hour, on the company, or perhaps just on the spirit of randomness and adventure I haven't indulged in for way too long.

I reach across you to search the glovebox as I drive off, and find a Nightwish CD to put on. I turn it down just low enough for me to hear, and murmur along with it, so as not to interrupt the conversation between you and J. We throw around a few ideas for places to go, things to do. I decide I want to go to the beach. Since I am, literally, in the driver's seat, I start angling that way.

I find myself marginally glad for J's presence in the car. It allows the two of you to entertain each other while I lose myself in the music. You are perhaps not quite as happy for the company: more than once you try to engage me about the music, but J keeps drawing you back in.

In trying to get my bearings, deciding where the best beach might be, and navigating around a road or two blocked by construction, I take a meandering path toward the lake. I laugh at every delay and detour adding to the journey, to the adventure. As I finally approach Lake Shore Drive, a giant totem pole looms on the other side of the highway, bathed in light.

“We could climb a totem pole,” I break into the conversation.

You and J stop and stare ahead. Somehow you missed it, or didn't quite understand what it was. You squint and see two wings coming out of the top, Caduceus-like, surrounding what looks like a bird's head.

“That does indeed appear to be a totem pole,” you say.

It's oddly lit, bright white in the night. ‘Why would they keep it lit at this time of night?’ you wonder. ‘Who is this being lit for? And why is the thing so pale?’

I work my way north to find a road to cross to the other side of the quiet highway. The air of camaraderie grows. You're both now engaged in the adventure, and have left behind whatever conversation I'd been disengaged from. Upon exiting from the underpass, I head back southwards toward the totem pole.

I've kept my eye out for parking, but before I can find any, we come to a closed gate. “Crap,” I utter, looking for alternate routes. The only other road seems like it might head the wrong way onto Lake Shore Drive, complete with large “Do Not Enter” signs flanking either side of it. So instead I pull a U-turn, and start heading north once again. “Guess we're not climbing a totem pole tonight,” I quietly lament. But I still have my heart set on the beach.

The road north leads us onto LSD. I immediately take us back off at Montrose. Approaching the intersection where I would turn right toward the lake, I notice that the road is gated. Almost gated. I hesitate. Will someone try to stop us?

I don't bend to what I'm supposed to do. Nor do I let fear of what might happen shape my decisions. The left hand side of the road, for traffic leaving from the lake, still stands open. I pass between the closed gate and the sign, officially trespassing onto the closed lakefront.

I think I'm heading toward the lake, but the twists and turns of this road confuse my sense of direction. Nothing is particularly familiar. Realizing that we're driving through a parking area, I decide that we'll stop and find the lake sans vehicle. Parking isn't hard. Nobody's around, so I pull into a random empty spot. “This is parking,” I announce, cutting the engine.

As we all climb out of the car, I slip out of my shoes. If there's any clambering to be done, bare feet are much more effective. And besides, I want to feel the sand beneath my feet.

“Yes,” you say, as you watch me toss my shoes onto my seat. “I haven't gone barefoot in too long.”

I stand by amusedly as you remove your own shoes and socks. You toss them through the door I'm still holding open, across to the passenger seat where you'd been sitting. As though a tangible example of the contact barrier that stands between us: even our disembodied shoes shouldn't touch each other.

As we begin to walk away, you and I barefoot and J conspicuously shod, a distant rumbling catches our attention. A street sweeper is making late night rounds through the parking lot, headed straight for my car. We all watch, transfixed, as it draws ever nearer.

“Maybe we should find out if you're going to get a ticket,” you suggest.

Mentally, I am trying to approach the car and the threat. To say or do something that would actually avert any potential problem. But the call of the water so near is too loud; I'm rooted in place, and can do nothing but watch as this strange rolling beast sidles up to the car, and awkwardly angles around it, wandering away again into the distance as quickly and ungracefully as it arrived.

I shrug it off. “What's done is done,” I mumble, and take off at a steady pace toward the lake I know is hiding behind that rise of hill ahead. I panic for a split second as I crest the rise, seeing a rocky shore ahead. I've overshot the beach. But relief washes over me as my eyes draw to the right and spot the sandy shore on the other side of the fence. With a breath of relief, I carefully make my way down the stone steps, the fence's edge my goal.

We march around the fence and across the stones for a spell before we hop down to the beach. I head straight for the water, blindly trusting that you are both following behind me.

I tentatively let the waves lap at my toes. “Cold!” I marvel, delighted at how icy the water feels. I inch into the water. You wander in too. You enjoy the feeling of your toes slipping through the wet sand and comment on how the waves imposed their own distinct ripples on the sand here in the shallow end. I explore those ripples with my feet, a curious texture I hadn't expected. I stroll through the ankle deep water for uncounted yards, entranced by sensations of water and sand.

You fall behind while I walk along the shore. Almost as an afterthought, a quick glimpse over my shoulder confirms that you're nearby playing in the sand, and J has been close at hand following me in the nebulous space between the waves and the tide line.

You watch us as you plant yourself into the sand and do what you always do: speculate. What is my relationship with J? Right now, he seems stuck to me, even though you think I might be looking for a moment of solitude.

At some point I cease to notice how cold the water is, and begin wading farther out, inching my skirt up to keep it out of the waves' reach. I meander along, mesmerized by and reveling in pure sensation: the rippled sand massaging my feet... the surface of the water caressing my calves... the sand being pulled from beneath my toes by receding waves... the wind licking my arms and back... the reflection of faraway flood lights on the choppy surface of the swaying water... the sound of waves crashing gently on the shore... I am out in the beyond.

You're lying in the sand, watching me by myself. You're wondering what I'm thinking about. You've learned so much about my life over the past week or so. Am I thinking about my family? My partner, or his son, or the connections of his that touch my life? Or of distant friends I'd recently mentioned missing so much? The Zen retreat I'll be going on next week, perhaps? Curiosity compels you to get up, pull your pants legs up, and walk out into the lake with me.

I hear you approach, but I'm not really here. It doesn't register.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask. Your voice startles me. I stare at you for half a moment, trying to get back in synch with this world after having the spell of the water and the wind broken. You’re holding your pants legs up at your knees. It looks a little ridiculous.

What was I thinking? I honestly consider the question for a moment. And then I offer an honest answer: “I don't know.” The only more honest answer would be that I wasn't thinking about anything; but I'm not making that distinction.

“Perfect.”

I'd held no expectations on how you would respond, yet still you surprise me. The blanket acceptance of my state of being is comforting. You get it. I wasn't processing, wasn't thinking about things. I was having an experience.

We exchange awkward smiles, made all the more awkward by your pants legs in your hands, the hem dipping into the lake. We stand there another moment or three in silence.

“I'm going to go play in the sand.” Water isn't your element. You are more grounded, more earth. So you smile and trudge away.

I smile inwardly at the childlike phrase, and intention. The elements' spell on me broken, I slowly follow you back to shore. “The sand is so warm,” I marvel as I approach where you and J are sitting.

“Not really,” you explain. “It's just that the water was cold. Feel it with your hands.”

I crouch down, and run my hands through the sand. It's cold to the touch. Such contrast with how it felt on my feet almost makes me shiver. I settle roughly between you and J, delighting in the feeling of the sand gliding over and between my fingers almost as much as I'd earlier enjoyed the water and the wind.

You're lying on your side sweeping your hand through the sand and watching the crest of the sand wave move forward before your arm. You tell me about how organic it looks, the way it slides forward with sand running down the front of the crest. The way it builds up and then a whole layer slides down the face at once. You relate it to philosophy of science and revolutions. You see microscopic continuity, but from a farther angle you see an abrupt shift, like the layer of sand collapsing, like a revolution in a field.

The connection seems tenuous to me, but you seem to have a way of branching off on tangents like this. You delight in connecting ideas. These analogies and metaphors guide your understanding and your memories.

Not long after the conversation settles into quietude, I hear the water again calling out to me. My ears perk up. I spring up suddenly and dance over to the water's edge. I sit in the sand where the waves can lick my toes, not caring that the damp of waves past is seeping into my clothes.

A moment later J is sitting behind me. He surprised me as much as you had earlier. I was enthralled by my surroundings. I feel his hands upon my shoulders, alternatively rubbing at them and trying to brush the sand from my back. Clearly he doesn't understand that sand is as indelible as glitter upon the skin.

I want to be left to my solitude to contemplate the lake. Every grain of sand that moves upon my skin is another irritation reminding me that I can't do so. I shrug my back like cattle trying to unseat a persistent fly. When that doesn't work, I manage to find my voice. “Please stop,” I utter. As soon as I say it, I realize I was too quiet to be heard. J's hands continue to paw at my skin. My shoulders tense against the unwanted contact. “Please, stop,” I repeat, marginally louder, and with a growing irritation. Hands brush at my shoulders. Why won't they leave me be? I finally find the projection of voice I need. It comes out forcefully: “Please. Stop.”

The hands are gone. A moment later, so is J. I relax into a sense of relief at being able to enjoy my solitude again. A dozen heartbeats later J returns, standing over me.

“I have stuff to do in the morning,” he tells me. “I'm going to walk home.”

“Okay,” is my terse reply.

“See you around...” he trails off, before turning and heading northward.

I sit on the sand, finally left to my solitude, actually thinking this time. Some time later, you approach and sit beside me. You respect my introspection, and we sit in a comfortable silence for a time. You ask where J went. When I tell you he left, you curse him amusedly for skipping the goodbye and the socially required “it was nice meeting you.”

“What were you thinking about?” you finally ask.

This time, I had an answer. “Connections.” You aren't sure whether I'm talking about human connections or something more general, like the connections between ideas that seem to fascinate you. It amuses me, the way your head always seems in the clouds, understanding things in the most general, abstract terms you can find. But really, you know what I'm talking about. “The connections between people. The differences in perceptions of those connections, or the lack thereof.” Connections between distant friends that take so much work to keep from fading, those between old lovers struggling to relate, those between old friends who keep a body from sinking.

I don't include how I'd been thinking about how connections between people can fade, and the mourning I'd felt over one in particular as I sat there. Or of the emergent connection I feel between you and I. Instead I tell you about the moments with J just before he left. I didn't mind the contact, but I'm worried he's interested in me in a way that I'm not. You think he likes me too. You tell me that asymmetries in relationships are things to worry about. They're trouble.

We sit down in the sand and begin to wonder what to do with the rest of the night. I warn you that I probably won't be good company if we stay here, but you aren't concerned. Just being here is worthwhile.

So we sit and relax.

You begin running your fingers through the sand in front of you, making symmetric waves in front of us. And I sit here, relaxed, pondering the sand, the water, the calm of it all, and I wonder what attracts you to the sand. You've told me about the way the fronts of sand fall as you push them forward, but that's not what you're doing. Is it the feeling of it in your fingers? The sight of the waves? Something to focus yourself on, like your origami? Are you distracting yourself from me for a moment, attending to something more simple than the person sitting next to you, drawing out that anticipation for the moments you and I face each other, set aside the distractions, and enjoy the elation of being with someone you like, someone who likes you, touched with the anxiety of not knowing what will happen?

You look at the pattern you've now made in the sand, and a thought strikes you.

“It's a twat.”

I can't help but giggle. You told me before that you love the word “twat,” on the train with a group of friends. You love the way your lips wrap around the “w” and then open for the “a” as your tongue rises to close off that final “t”. It reminds you of other things you could be doing with those lips and that tongue.

“We should introduce it to the totem pole.” New connections.

As we sit on the sand, I slowly begin to realize that the day's warmth has long since faded. The summer nights feel so much colder by the lake, and the cool air has steadily stripped my own warmth away. A breeze hits me. I shiver.

“Are you cold?” you ask. I only nod, by this point having grown tired, as well. “Do you want to leave?”

“Not really,” I respond. Despite the cold, I'm still enjoying the surroundings, the company, our intimate interactions. I know that there is a certain quality to the moment that will be lost when we leave. And I am enjoying the sensation of that intangible, unidentifiable quality as much as the sand beneath my feet or the wind through my hair.

You crouch down behind me and drape yourself over my back. Your arms fall loosely around my body, your head where my neck meets my shoulders. I smile inwardly at the effort. It's at once awkward and intimate, as though that breeze had blown away some of that contact barrier between us.

“I'm afraid I don't make a very good wind breaker,” you admit regretfully.

“That's okay,” I reply softly. “Your body heat is plenty enough to keep me warm.”

You shift closer to me, sitting with your legs stretched out to your left, your head over my right shoulder. You wrap your arms around me. I take your hands into my own and close them around my torso. We draw each other in. A smile you probably can't see slowly grows on my face, spreading into a grin. Yet again this night I'm reveling in pure sensation: of how comfortable you feel wrapped around me, of how natural it feels.

Our heads connect, your cheek against my ear. You brush your nose against my cheek and draw it back towards my ear. At first, I can't tell if it's affection, or if you're angling for a more comfortable position. Your warm breath caresses the inside of my ear as you draw your nose back along its rim, exploring its contours. 'Is he going to try to kiss me?' I wonder. Do I want you to? I'm enjoying the taffy-like tension-but-not of emergent connection. People almost never take the time to enjoy this so thoroughly. You pull your head down, your nose sliding along the back of my ear, your breath trailing down my neck. You can feel your heart beating against my back and you wonder if I can feel it too.

You draw yourself back up and pull me into you. Your cheek rests against mine, our heads touching gently. As you rest there, you wonder what my voice would sound like this close, with our heads touching.

"Say something." you say. Your voice is clear, not a whisper, yet you say it as quietly as you can, using the short space between us to talk without disturbing the space around us any more than necessary.

I'm caught off guard at the sudden request. What do you want me to say? Anything, just to break the silence? Do you want me to tell you I was wondering if you might kiss me? What if you weren't thinking of it? What if you were?

I search for the first neutral thing to come to mind. “Umm... Rapunzel.”

‘An excellent response,’ you think. My voice sounds no different to you than it usually does, but you're amused by my choice, and your mind immediately summons images of dragons, dragonslayers, and Rapunzel's windowsill. But it is not yet time for a bigger kind of kill.

You lean back a bit and put your hand on my back. Your fingertips trace lines from my neck around my shoulder blades, through the crescent moons on my back, across the muscles on my shoulder, and down my arms. You have a light touch, and your eyes are focused on my skin. It leaves me feeling as though you're exploring my body the way your myriad questions and long conversations have been exploring my life and my thoughts. You touch me with the care of a person focused entirely on this activity and its sensations.

“It's very possible your back might never feel like this to me again.” The rough sand against my skin is like a new experience for you.

“We can always come back to the beach again,” I offer. And it turns out we would, less than a week later, to catch shooting stars.

We hold each other a while longer and exchange few words. We're both tired but looking to avoid any decision about what to do next. So we continue to sit in comfortable silence and embrace, consciousness fading from me, until you suggest, “Maybe you should get some sleep.”

“What if I just fall asleep right here?” I mumble, commenting on my comfort and continued reluctance to leave.

In response you roll backward into the sand without breaking your hold on me. I giggle at the spontaneous gesture, then nestle in close continuing my courtship with sleep.

I'm roused by you moving behind me. It's late and I have to go to work in a few hours. You ask if I want to go to your place. We can have a shower and de-sand, then get some decent sleep for a few hours. This sounds like a lovely idea to me, just motivating enough to lift my tired body from the beach and move back along the beach, up and around the fence, and towards the car.

I notice a large piece of white paper on my windshield: a parking ticket. But I don’t really care. The adventure was worth this punishment for trespassing.