Wendy's Cherry Farm

“Look! Over there! There’s a herd!”

My eyes squint tersely, fighting the fiery glare of the sun’s setting rays. I watch as a smattering of teenage boys scampers hurriedly towards the shoreline, legs clunkily attempting and failing to step over the rhythmic barrage of waves. There’s a futility in watching them battle the ocean: those who fight the hardest against the water’s natural flow end up with burning nostrils and cracked lips as a reminder of defeat, while those who move with the current are swept away, too quickly and too easily, into deep, unforgiving territory.

I raise my gaze to the distance, where I catch a glimpse of a glossy appendage maneuver into the water. I wonder if she is alone this time, I think as I slowly stand and brush away the meager granules of sand that had ventured through my shorts. Sports mesh proved to be more effective than anticipated at keeping uncomfortable visitors at bay.

A melodic trill from the right draws me toward the harbor’s rocky embrace. As I approach, she emerges with a splash and an exhale, water cascading off her form.

Over here! I’m right here! Her smile blazes brighter than the crimson sun at her back. Jet-black hair clings to her skin in abstract yet artful bell-like curves resembling jellyfish mesoglea. 

I take my seat on one of the less overtly obtuse rocks. “You’re early today.”

I just couldn’t wait to see you. Her tail flicks playfully, sending a gentle shower across my chest. 

“You brought friends?” I flick away the moisture before it has more time to settle into my shirt and tout my head towards the distance, where two, glossy porpoise heads bob in perfect synchronicity with the ebb and flow of the waves.

Her gaze follows mine. Ah, yes. They followed when they heard I was visiting the east side. They usually stay west this season—that’s where the herring lay their eggs. She releases a sharp, crystalline trill that bounces off the rocky walls like struck crystal. The porpoises answer with higher notes and a synchronized splash.

“Do they like people?”

They’ll like you because I like you. You know I call the shots around here. Her expression shifts, and I brace myself for that smile—the one I can never resist. It begins in her striking gray eyes, crinkling at the corners with mischievous light. Then comes that slow, deliberate lift of the corner of her lip, like a debutante’s measured drawl stretching out the word “darling” into three luxurious syllables. Finally, her pearl-white teeth emerge from behind full, glossy lips in a display that makes my chest ache. 

It’s the kind of smile that belongs on wraparound porches with crystal glasses of sweet tea catching the afternoon light, unhurried and deliberate as molasses in January. Too sweet. I look down, watching my feet disappear into the sand. 

The atmosphere changes instantly. I don’t need to see her face to know her smile has vanished, replaced by a clenched jaw and tightened lips.

Look at me, please.

When I meet her gaze, I find her expression divided: below, anger and frustration carve harsh lines around her mouth, but above, her eyes swim with unshed tears. Her nose is the equator, twitching slightly. 

I’ve been coming here for months, and you still won’t show me a smile. You can barely even look at me.

Words fail me. How was I supposed to tell her that I was absolutely enraptured by her, and that she had become my entire world? How could I tell her that I resented her and loved her? That even though her existence was blinding, I would live the rest of my life without seeing if it meant I could hear her laugh?

“I’m sorry.”

What are you sorry for?

I feel my throat sting like I had swallowed a mouthful of burrs. “I can’t look at you. You know I can’t. It’s too hard.”

A pause. The boys had ventured off, their distant shouts faded to whispers in the wind.

It wasn’t your fault, you know. Her voice carries the unbearable weight of sympathy. I feel my stomach bubble with anger, corrosive and hot. 

“And how would you know?” I spit back, tone biting. The end of each word attacks with the precision and venom of a wasp’s stinger. 

I don’t. But I know you.

Tears spill over. “Stop talking.”

She falls silent. I pretend to be preoccupied by tracing the crystalline patterns left by dried salt on the rocks, ignoring the wet tracks on my cheeks. I feel her soft gaze wash over me like a soft swath of pillowy luminescence. 

“I hate it, you know. I hate that you don’t know how it feels.”

I turn towards her and meet her eyes for the first time today. She stares back at me, unwavering and resilient, yet full of hope. Behind her irises burns something mechanical and magnificent—like the heart of a forge where golden gears rotate in perfect synchronicity, their teeth catching starfire. The machinery of hope and defiance—spinning faster and hotter than any flame, yet contained within the perfect gray spheres of her irises.

You couldn’t have prevented it. Stop blaming yourself. Stop hating me.

Our eyes remain locked. The setting sun catches her gray irises at just the right angle, turning them into silver, reflective mosaics.

Her expression softens. Stop hating yourself.

I hate her sympathy, her kindness, and most of all, her untainted existence. She is everything I lost, everything I can’t reclaim.

In her eyes, my own gaze back—gray and unforgiving. The same eyes that had smiled at me moments before now filled with recognition of a truth I’ve been avoiding: she is me; I am her, and we are both learning how to swim again.