A Woman and the Shore I've followed a beautiful woman to the ocean and how like a lover it seems, lapping against the shore. It is sinuous and smooth. The water ebbs and flows beneath the caress of the moonlight. Each retreat is an invitation, a finger curling in a suggestive manner. It is hungry for a taste of anything it can touch and drag nearer with its undertow. The ocean is both cradle and deathbed, depending upon its mood.
I've been told a storm brushed the coast a few days ago. The evidence sits high on the profile of the beach: a ragged umbrella, great hunks of seaweed, pieces of driftwood that resemble scoured bone.
Later, I'll find grains of sand in my hair. My skin will smell of salt and fish.
What am I to do with Sasha once I've found her? I can't recall why I followed her down the coast. A thousand, four-hundred miles is extravagant, even for me. It was to do with a pattern of moles I liked, I know that, but why were they so irresistable that I booked myself on a plane? That part is lost to me. Now, more than anything, it is a desire for completion that compells me. To finish what I've started. I can't have traveled all this way on a whim only to change my mind. The only thing that makes a flight of fancy acceptable is the decency to resolve it.
My mind wanders tonight. I can't help blaming the new landscape. The noise and urgency of New York gave one more focus than perspective.