He strode along the shore. The evening was dull. Wet mists hung over the ocean, rolled onto land with the tide. The light was cold. The sand was damp and colourless.. He wore a clean coat made of leather. Green rakes of seaweed marked the tide-line. His eyes were partly closed and he began to think.
It had always been destined to fail. She had bored him from the very beginning. When she was in need of emotional satisfaction he had met her with apathy. She was pretty but her character inundated him. She held a certain allure that had sustained the morbid suspension of their relationship. She was older than him. She was a novelty. Their situation had been peculiar. Her kisses were stale, banal.
He lifted his eyes to the steely sand before him. There was no-one to be seen. His black curls irritated his eyes in the damp but he didn’t make an effort to brush them away. His skin was pale and moist. He could hear the soft-tread of his boots on the sand. To the right he heard a cormorant screech. He glimpsed a whitish body hurl itself to the marram fringes and then saw nothing. He imagined the bird's unseen prey. The air was fragrant with dillisk and mineral salts. Once more tilting his head to the water, he swallowed the drizzle which ran down his face in beady tracks. Chinning his collar, he breathed calmly. The water lapped soundlessly to his left.
‘It’s no use. We’ve known for months that it wasn’t ever going to work’. Her supple figure leaned on the window frame. She was wearing a thin moss-green dress. ‘I don’t think we need to argue anymore’. Her voice was sharp. They were in the parlour of his apartment. She had wanted a conversation. ‘Good’, he whispered.. . Eyes unmoving, he inhaled. All was silent and he heard her whimper pathetically and leave through the front door. He had probably disappointed her again. He felt suddenly drowsy in the warmth of his navy jacket and made towards the panelled door. He didn’t suppose that she was going to be back.
He reverted to his surroundings. He noticed the hardness of his exposed skin. He had always been told that sand was an excellent exfoliant. He paused and dug a small handful of sand from a spot of beach before him. He waited for the water to dribble between his fingers and then squeezed the grains into small clumps. He pressed the sand against his cracked lips to curb their hardness. He rubbed until he tasted blood. He rubbed whatever sand was left between his hands until it formed small dry cakes which fell to the ground. He staggered on.
He spied a large boulder although the light was dim. Black of stone against the off-black twilight. He slowed before he reached the rock. It seemed out of place. He sat. The stone was soft and warmer than the air passing across it. He produced a small knife from his breast pocket. He drew a flint from an invisible fold in his trousers and struck it with the blade of the knife. Orange sparks flew and were gone. The light amused him for a moment. The shadow of a smile touched his lips. The water was nearing. He twirled the blade between his fingers and felt across the rock. His thumb fell on a patch of lichen. He touched it sumptuously for a moment. Using his knife, he scratched at the unseen growth until all that was left of it was a fine biological dust. He felt across the newly-exposed patch of stone and sighed.
His mind wandered.He thought of his youth. His father had always told him that violence showed a man’s weakness. His friends were scolded and beaten for being bold. When he misbehaved he was sent to sit on the porch. There, he spent long minutes rubbing the wood of the veranda until it was hot and sweet-smelling. He loved that. When his mother found him shaving the planks with a razor one day she became scared. They thought him strange and beat him. He didn’t really mind. The leather strap stung. It was an endearing sensation.
He let the knife fall to his feet. He was weary.
He didn’t remember where they’d met. It seemed to him that they had always known each-other. The rock was sharp in places. His first memory of them together came to him. He was at the library. She crossed the brown carpet inches from his feet. He followed her across the musty space. She turned down a distant row and vanished. All that was left was her scent. Always like daisies.
They courted and were young, digesting the city. He cared for little other than himself. She often told him that she loved him. He didn’t, couldn’t reciprocate. She drifted away. She grew to hate. That was what had happened. The water was now circling about his feet. The wind carried drifts of hazy fog. Eyes open to the pitchblack, he savoured the breeze.
He suddenly stood. The ends of his trousers were soaked. His eyes saw nothing.. He felt no sentimentality. All he felt was the turbulent breeze against his skin. On a sudden, the wind lifted. The blackness smouldered in the night. The water tugged at his shins with its rhythmic swash and backwash. The wind sped past him now with a whistle. The sound of winds and rolling water collected itself into one single cacophonic tone. The sound then changed as if overtones were being stripped from it. The tumult refined itself until there, barely, existed a pure frequency which came in intoxicating cycles. The man stood invigorated. It was beautiful.
'You didn't love me' she said. He nodded shyly. 'Did you ever love me?'
Then in an instant these memories poured their emotion onto him. He tensed. He felt the lash of brackish wind on his cheek. His family. His introversion. That delirium of the past came upon him. The deluge swirled.
'Aubergine. Aubergine for supper!'. He ran towards the whitewood house. He paused a moment at the wire door to turn and look at the garden. He was hungry. He was six or seven. Snatches of memory. Aubergines were vile.
The storm. He waited, paralysed now. What he could hear became quieter, purer and brighter still. Slowly, precisely, he began to wade. He gasped.
His lungs drank up their liquid fill. His thoughts mingled with the spray.
It had always been destined to fail. She had bored him from the very beginning. When she was in need of emotional satisfaction he had met her with apathy. She was pretty but her character inundated him. She held a certain allure that had sustained the morbid suspension of their relationship. She was older than him. She was a novelty. Their situation had been peculiar. Her kisses were stale, banal.
He lifted his eyes to the steely sand before him. There was no-one to be seen. His black curls irritated his eyes in the damp but he didn’t make an effort to brush them away. His skin was pale and moist. He could hear the soft-tread of his boots on the sand. To the right he heard a cormorant screech. He glimpsed a whitish body hurl itself to the marram fringes and then saw nothing. He imagined the bird's unseen prey. The air was fragrant with dillisk and mineral salts. Once more tilting his head to the water, he swallowed the drizzle which ran down his face in beady tracks. Chinning his collar, he breathed calmly. The water lapped soundlessly to his left.
‘It’s no use. We’ve known for months that it wasn’t ever going to work’. Her supple figure leaned on the window frame. She was wearing a thin moss-green dress. ‘I don’t think we need to argue anymore’. Her voice was sharp. They were in the parlour of his apartment. She had wanted a conversation. ‘Good’, he whispered.. . Eyes unmoving, he inhaled. All was silent and he heard her whimper pathetically and leave through the front door. He had probably disappointed her again. He felt suddenly drowsy in the warmth of his navy jacket and made towards the panelled door. He didn’t suppose that she was going to be back.
He reverted to his surroundings. He noticed the hardness of his exposed skin. He had always been told that sand was an excellent exfoliant. He paused and dug a small handful of sand from a spot of beach before him. He waited for the water to dribble between his fingers and then squeezed the grains into small clumps. He pressed the sand against his cracked lips to curb their hardness. He rubbed until he tasted blood. He rubbed whatever sand was left between his hands until it formed small dry cakes which fell to the ground. He staggered on.
He spied a large boulder although the light was dim. Black of stone against the off-black twilight. He slowed before he reached the rock. It seemed out of place. He sat. The stone was soft and warmer than the air passing across it. He produced a small knife from his breast pocket. He drew a flint from an invisible fold in his trousers and struck it with the blade of the knife. Orange sparks flew and were gone. The light amused him for a moment. The shadow of a smile touched his lips. The water was nearing. He twirled the blade between his fingers and felt across the rock. His thumb fell on a patch of lichen. He touched it sumptuously for a moment. Using his knife, he scratched at the unseen growth until all that was left of it was a fine biological dust. He felt across the newly-exposed patch of stone and sighed.
His mind wandered.He thought of his youth. His father had always told him that violence showed a man’s weakness. His friends were scolded and beaten for being bold. When he misbehaved he was sent to sit on the porch. There, he spent long minutes rubbing the wood of the veranda until it was hot and sweet-smelling. He loved that. When his mother found him shaving the planks with a razor one day she became scared. They thought him strange and beat him. He didn’t really mind. The leather strap stung. It was an endearing sensation.
He let the knife fall to his feet. He was weary.
He didn’t remember where they’d met. It seemed to him that they had always known each-other. The rock was sharp in places. His first memory of them together came to him. He was at the library. She crossed the brown carpet inches from his feet. He followed her across the musty space. She turned down a distant row and vanished. All that was left was her scent. Always like daisies.
They courted and were young, digesting the city. He cared for little other than himself. She often told him that she loved him. He didn’t, couldn’t reciprocate. She drifted away. She grew to hate. That was what had happened. The water was now circling about his feet. The wind carried drifts of hazy fog. Eyes open to the pitchblack, he savoured the breeze.
He suddenly stood. The ends of his trousers were soaked. His eyes saw nothing.. He felt no sentimentality. All he felt was the turbulent breeze against his skin. On a sudden, the wind lifted. The blackness smouldered in the night. The water tugged at his shins with its rhythmic swash and backwash. The wind sped past him now with a whistle. The sound of winds and rolling water collected itself into one single cacophonic tone. The sound then changed as if overtones were being stripped from it. The tumult refined itself until there, barely, existed a pure frequency which came in intoxicating cycles. The man stood invigorated. It was beautiful.
'You didn't love me' she said. He nodded shyly. 'Did you ever love me?'
Then in an instant these memories poured their emotion onto him. He tensed. He felt the lash of brackish wind on his cheek. His family. His introversion. That delirium of the past came upon him. The deluge swirled.
'Aubergine. Aubergine for supper!'. He ran towards the whitewood house. He paused a moment at the wire door to turn and look at the garden. He was hungry. He was six or seven. Snatches of memory. Aubergines were vile.
The storm. He waited, paralysed now. What he could hear became quieter, purer and brighter still. Slowly, precisely, he began to wade. He gasped.
His lungs drank up their liquid fill. His thoughts mingled with the spray.
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