The last-call bell inside the restaurant rang and the last guests left in succession like seaweed washed away by waves. Their whirl of plaid and pastel gave way to the road which stretched alongside the bay. But one red dress stayed behind.
She trotted covetously to the counter side. Her red dress glazed the dirty, muddy counter and she rubbed the oyster mud down off her dress and then down off her thigh and then grabbed my cloth and rubbed it down again.
She reached across the counter to grab an oyster. She jolted as it slipped into her mouth. Her head tilted back—impossibly back.
We had done this every few nights for a summer now, sharing an oyster and a glance. Yet we hadn’t shared a word, and the summer was coming to a close as the setting sun sunk into the cliffs of the bay.
“Is it hard?” her lips asked, quivering from the salt as she broke the silence. I shook my head.
“But it must hurt a little?” I shook my head again and she licked her lips of the brine and the shards of shell in the same motion.
“What is this called?” she asked. “I mean, what do you do?” Our eyes met and I could see her eyes watering from the mignonette.
“I shuck,” I said. “Haven’t you ever shucked before?” I asked.
Her breath stopped as her blonde hair waved with a shaking head. “I’ve tried,” she said, “but I’ve never finished one.”
She grabbed another oyster. Head back again she slipped it in with a jolt.
“Are you good,” she hesitated, “at shucking?” She looked up at me as her wet lips, still wet, spoke still soaking from the brine.
“Depends,” I said.
“On what?” she asked.
“On the oyster,” I said. “Some are harder to shuck than others.”
She took hold of a raw, whole shell and traced her fingers in a circular motion around the hinge. “How about this one?” she offered.
“I’ve been trying to shuck that all night,” I said. “Just won’t open.”
“Then show me how,” she ordered.
Not leaving time for an answer, her hand reached toward me. The sun was setting now in a deep red and the sea was calm in the bay save the moon tide.
I took her hand in mine, and guided it towards the blade shaft of the shucking knife, clenching it tightly.
She gazed down at the blade shaft and then at me. The oyster was rough and sharp yet smooth on the bottom and her hands were soft. I placed it in her grip, the shell dripping and the drips trailing down her arm.
“Hold it like this,” I said, motioning with the oyster in my hands. She held it softly in her hands as I held her hands in mine.
“Now push it in, slowly. Back and forth. Side to side. Like this.” I showed her and she grasped the blade hard. I held her hand firmer.
I could feel her breathing heavier but steadily now. And the moon tide continued as a mirror of the setting red sun.
We pushed harder together, gently. Her breath steadied now as the back and forth deepened into the hinge. The blade slipped but she pushed it back in, harder and deeper this time. It was giving way.
The hinge was softening now, widening, as the blade entered. We could feel the blade coming through to the inside. It was so close.
“So close,” she whispered.
“Keep going,” I urged. “It’s almost finished.”
Her wet arm was on mine and the bass were jumping and the blushing sun let out a final flash. The blade pushed all the way through with a final thrust. Her hand now grasped mine and mine hers and the shell burst open with a jolt.