'One day I'll go away, and leave this place and be free to live my life the way I like', she had convinced herself all the other times she had been here. A few times she had acted like a daydreamy girl, carrying a thin stick in her hands and using it to draw or write her name in the sand and clearly envisioning the life she always wanted: not only the bustle of the big city, but to become famous for her dancing.
Not that she wasn't already notorious for it, of course. Of the five town bachelorettes she was known for her skill of graceful dancing if not for her wicked temper. She liked the beach as the best place to practice in seclusion. Right now she ran swiftly up the beach and then broke off into a beautiful twirl, the front of her right boot twisting into the sand. When she stepped off she saw that she had made a perfect circle and smiled to herself. It wasn't many who could keep steady in the sand.
A crab scuttled by from under the pier, disturbed from the shadows of Karen's fair and feminine silhouette. Karen watched its movements and followed it in her own interpretive dance, springing and bending her long, shapely legs. Her arms were well toned, too, and she held them in a firm, strong and poised position above her head.
In a matter of minutes she had been swept away by the wind. The roaring and slapping of the ocean waves sounded distinctly like the faint rustle of the applause of several people, people in her imagination that came to see her dance, people from the future telling her that she had the power in her to do what she wanted to do. All she needed was some support to help her get there. Flower Bud Village, to Karen, had no ambition. It was a town where you said you spent your life and complained to your grandchildren how simple life had been when you were a child.
Karen danced until her hamstrings were stretched enough and every muscle she used felt worn for the day. It was a marvelous feeling that gave her the sensation that she had worked harder in preparing for her dream. The sun was now hanging ostentatiously low on the horizon, splashing its vermilion-orange light around her the way water sluiced through a very weak dam. Soon she would have to be heading for the bar, where unfortunately her father went every evening and she worked part-time.
Walking along the shore one last time, she wished she could carry the salt-smell of the air with her. She carried her boots with her socks stuffed in them and didn't realize she made a mistake in doing so until she had stepped on a shell and cursed out loud for it.
Karen bent to examine the inflictor of her wound and noticed that the minute seashell was curled smoothly and pointed at the end, perfect for a ridiculous necklace. Didn't Popuri mention something like this to her once? She recalled one evening, after another bout with her father, in which she met Popuri here, and the pink-haired daughter of the town florist Lillia had been gathering what she called moonlight shells, believed to be used as good-luck charms specifically for love. It was hard for Karen to believe in such things when she thought love was so far away from her. Instead of picking it up and carrying it with her, or even giving it to Popuri, who loved them, she sifted some of the cool, gritty sand with her thumbs and buried it. In the midst of her hostile mood toward her family, she thought that the shell she found should have a proper grave, as did her willingness to fall in love. Being seventeen, it was too late for her, but to others that only meant preparations for her marriage should be made quickly.
"Just another day," sighed Karen half-heartedly without realizing she said it, and choosing to thoroughly ignore the secret of the little cream-white seashell that Popuri had certainly not been lying about.