The Moon is a Harsh Mistress

I walked the silent cement strip aptly lit by the marigold-bulbed lights that were just budding in the wake of the last ray-shower of the sun. The lights, which dominated the right side of the sidewalk, were superseded only by the endless alignment of hotels, which resembled the last stretch of a classic Monopoly board—starting at Pacific Avenue and ending at Boardwalk. The left side of the sidewalk offered nothing but railing and the boardwalk itself—a useless commodity, especially at night, when the elongated wooden expanse serves only as a plank over the abyss of the sea.

The ocean is cryptic enough during the day, but by night the depths of its fathoms cannot be fathomed by the mind's eye alone. This is where other senses take precedent: the subtle white noise crashing of the tide; the recurring refreshing smell jettisoning thereof, despite the historical stench of the Atlantic; the goosebump-inducing gale that reminds of mid-spring—all orchestrated by the moon, which, upon the night of my arrival, was full of herself.

She rose red. The red of a rose. The red of a heart logo that strengthens the claim that Virginia is for Lovers. She was a sunken red beacon, and as she rose to the top of her invisible lighthouse, all were gravitated to her: waves. Seagulls. People. Even the facades of the hotels had a slight blush to them.

***

She rose red. The color of my ire the next night when I came prepared with my camera to capture the awe of the previous evening. I waited and waited, past an hour whence the moon seduced me the night before. Dejected and exasperated, I scuffled back to my hotel room, only to look out the window to find that the moon had risen behind my back—for another man who had more patience than I. The moon isn't my mistress. She's more like an ex-wife.