Jorge hums,

carries his boogie board

on top of his head.

Ahead of us at the crosswalk

of the last parking lot,

beneath a tall redwood,

two older boys are drinking

out of coffee mugs.

Bare-chested, shirts

tied around their waists,

they laugh loudly

when they see us.

They stare at Lisa,

her shoulders back, blond hair

falling over her blue bikini.

Beautiful.

She has told me over and over

that it doesn’t matter.

Silly boys, she always says. Just all silly boys.

I hope they don’t say anything,

but the air is too heavy

for silence,

and the words

creep out

between

the sounds

of the cars driving by.

What’s up, Baby Huey?

They are looking at Lisa,

but they are talking

to me.

Way to go, Baby Huey. They nod, laugh,

and the blond one comes behind me.

I try to ignore him,

but he’s too close.

When I turn,

he is imitating

my side-to-side walk.

Why don’t you guys leave us alone!

Lisa says without even looking.

Baby Huey’s got a girrrrrlfriend.

How can it be

that just a few seconds ago

everything was perfect?

Jorge asks them to stop.

They call him a beanpole.

When we get to a stop sign,

the cars are climbing away from Stinson,

a long line east on Shoreline Highway.

What did it look like

to the family in the white Suburban

or to that older couple

in the red convertible?

We’re just

grains of sand,

stepped on

or wiped off,

washed away.

I tell myself the familiar

things:

Ride it out. Ignore them.

Let the voices fade.

They’re not going to hurt you.

But I remember the bike path,

feel the bruises all over my body.

The boys keep walking

next to us until finally

Lisa stomps her feet.

Her voice is shrill.

You are so unoriginal. Just go away!

They step back.

The dark-haired boy

looks down,

puts his face in his shirt,

takes a long breath,

then looks at his friend.

Come on, man.

He waves his shirt

toward the road

in a gesture of retreat

or surrender.

He looks at Lisa,

whispers something.

Cars idle in the dusk.

The tide is coming in.

C’mon, leave the kids alone,

the dark-haired one says.

The blond one laughs.

Later, Baby Huey.

Later, a-holes! Lisa shouts.

Jorge hoists the boogie board

back to the top of his head.

I walk as straight as I can.

Later, on the sleeping mats,

I slam my face into my pillow.

I keep seeing it all in my head.

Not just today. All the days.

I try to put everything into the pillow,

crying, laughing, like I’m going crazy.

Lisa walks over to me and kneels down,

puts her hand on my back.

Don’t listen to them.

Don’t listen.

Robots

In the morning,

I’m still thinking

about the walk back

from the beach.

I decide to work on the game