Christmas in Jamaica

Taking a deep breath, Harrison threw his wedding ring into the Atlantic Ocean. With a keen eye for the dramatic, he had waited until the sun had completely set, with nothing but the millions of stars above to guide his arm. Eight years, five spent living together, the final three as husband and wife gone, sinking to the black depths below.

Harrison took a moment, not to savor and not necessarily to mourn, to remember. Remember everything about this moment, knowing this was indeed the end and needed to be appropriately marked. After all, this would be the last anniversary he would ever celebrate with her. The way the sand felt when he clenched his toes. How at that very moment, nature clicked the mute button. No sound of surf hitting shore, hell, there was nary a breeze present. Harrison was not a details man, except when it concerned his life. Do you get the difference? He would forget to take the coupon for cereal when he went food shopping, but he could tell you everything about the night he first kissed Samantha Bentley. He couldn’t keep a schedule at work (thank God for Rae) but he could tell you the events leading up to proposing to Sammie, the stress, the number of times he had to play “bad cop” with both of her sisters who wanted to be involved in the planning. Harrison’s mind was good at keeping track of the moments he would want to remember when he was eighty and excellent at sweeping away all the bullshit that in the end doesn’t matter.

And he knew for sure that this night would matter.

It started when the sun first began its descent. Harrison finished his drink, a decent rum, and Coke, and paid the bill for his swordfish dinner. He made his way through the occupied tables until he was outside on the beach — a lonely man in a white linen shirt, looking for a particular spot.

He made his way to the edge of the surf and found he had company. A local decided to join him and let him know how much he did not appreciate Harrison staring at “his” sunset. The conversation spun into something involving John Kennedy and the poor citizens of Cuba. Before Harrison could kindly tell the man to piss off, he was saved by another group of tourists further down the beach. They were having too much fun, and Jamaican man couldn’t have that.

Goodbye crazy Jamaican dude, thank you for not completely ruining my private moment.

That night was full of goodbyes.

Harrison had spent the previous five days at the resort, and the staff had not gotten used to him being alone. Every meal was an inquisition:

“Is someone else joining you?”

“You’re here alone?”

“Are you married?”

Each time Harrison patiently smiled and said no, table for one and commenced eating, feeling the stares of the surrounding guests, their eyes filled with pity. That pissed him off more than anything. Who were they to judge? Maybe he chose to take a vacation by himself and was enjoying the peace and solitude only a table for one can bring. Unlike the rest of the world, Harrison was cool with staying inside his head.

Nope, that was bullshit.

Harrison was miserable, and most likely, the stares of pity by the fellow guests were because they could feel his misery radiating from every pore. Throughout the eight years together, Sammie always talked about, “if” they ever broke up, on the next wedding anniversary they should meet where it all began, in Jamaica. Specifically, the very spot on the beach he tripped over her many moons ago. If both of them were there, it was a sign that whatever problem or problems they had could be worked out, because both cared enough to spend hundreds of dollars on a whim. Harrison always mocked the idea, why couldn’t they agree to meet somewhere closer, like Central Park? And Sammie would always get fake indignant and say that wasn’t romantic enough.

Well, fuck him if he didn’t decide at the last second to book a Jamaican vacation at the end of November, coinciding on their wedding anniversary at their original resort. If there was a chance Sammie was going to be on the beach, he had to take it. For five days at sunset Harrison went down to “their” spot and waited, and every day the sun set like it always did.

Without her.

And so that was how Harrison came to throw his wedding ring into the Atlantic Ocean. He took a second to imagine the band sinking to the bottom. Buried in sand, taken by the tide. Gone forever. Harrison wiped his eyes (for the last time he promised himself) and turned around to find a chocolate puppy sitting behind him. He couldn’t have been more than a year old, definitely a mutt, and there wasn’t a collar or tag to be found. Harrison bent down on one knee and scratched his head, a move the dog was happy to allow.

“Ohh, you’re a good boy, aren’t you? Came over to me because you knew I was sad, right? Huh boy? Well, let’s go get you some food.” After Harrison split a hamburger with him, they walked over to the lobby of the hotel to report he had found someone’s dog. The clerk manning the desk let out a laugh,

“These dogs are everywhere! Nothing but a nuisance.” Harrison looked down and saw the puppy eating something next to the counter.

“So, what should I do with him?”

“Whatever you’d like sir.” The phone rang, and the clerk picked up with the usual cheery disposition. The conversation was over. His marriage was over. The vacation was over. He was tired of endings.

He needed a beginning.

Harrison looked down at the puppy, who wagged his tail and flashed a smile only a dog can flash. Bob Marley sang in the background, something about emancipating yourself from mental slavery. Harrison dropped down to one knee, and the puppy licked his face.

“All right, Bob, let’s go home.”