"It's bullshit," she told him.
"¿Que?" he asked, never looking away from the water. No one else was on the beach. The sun was risen, full and fat just over the horizon.
"The saying, 'you can't love someone unless you love yourself.'"
"Why do you say that?" He scratched absently at a long scar on his chest.
"You know why."
He laughed a little and pushed his toes into the still cool sand. "Yes, I know." He looked at her. "But you do not love yourself?"
"No," she said. "I am indifferent to myself. I am everywhere I am. If I loved myself, it would be narcissism. If I hated myself, it would be the same. It would be like hating the air." It was her turn to dig into the sand.
"I see," he said. He looked back out over the water. "How long have we been together?"
"A long time. We met 20 years ago, you know. Today."
"I know," he said. "But when we first met: did you hate yourself?"
"Yes."
"That was narcissism?"
"Of course."
"Why?"
She waited for a minute, just to be sure, "I took myself too seriously. I was bothered by who I was. Now I am not."
"Well," he said, "I am happy and glad to be with who you are today. And I was happy with you, then."
He moved closer to her. She put her arms around him. He was not much bigger than she was. They sat a while. The sand heated up. She adjusted her swimsuit. It was probably a bit smaller than it should have been; she hadn't worn it in some years. After a while, more people arrived.
"So," she said, "Do you think that it's bullshit, too?"
"Oh. Yeah. Totally."
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