We broke up for the third time on vacation. The first time was after a vacation, and the second was right before.
It was never the vacation themselves. Like any relationships the scenes are just symbols for the real problems.
Like that time we fought when we were finishing that puzzle because I insisted her dog must have eaten a few pieces. She insisted it was my friend who slept over on the couch that had drunkenly stole them.
The first time we had gone to a cabin upstate. She realized how much I snored and couldn't go to sleep and so she stayed up thinking about how much I flirted with other women at her office holiday party. By the time I woke up, the relationship was over but I didn't find out until she called me the morning after we got back to tell me.
The second time we were headed home for the holidays to see her parents and I had never been more anxious. The way I packed my bag made no sense, the outfits I packed were stupid, the fact that she didn't have the time to get her nails done meant her mom was going to judge her, and me getting passed for a promotion meant her father was going to rate her sister's boyfriend over me. The way I was breathing pissed her off by the end of the night. That's okay, because I told her she wouldn't have to hear me breathe anymore and I let her go on that trip alone.
The third time we were at the beach with the singing sands. By then, we both didn't care. Sort of how you eat leftovers in the fridge because you're hungry and have nothing else to eat. The sex was the only good part. In some ways it was better than ever (for me at least). I just fucked her like she didn't mean anything to me. The last night of the trip after we fucked and when she was fake sleeping, I snuck out to walk on the beach by the moonlight. The singing sands had been silent so far on that trip, but as I looked out at the waves—they told me what I needed to hear.
I went inside, grabbed my bags, and walked out to grab a taxi. I gave her the goodbye kiss the sands had sung to me.