The air is crisp and a breeze pushes through my hair as I pull the light fabric of my jacket closer to my body. Squinting out over the soft-rippling sheath of water I watch as sun glints off the mast of a sailboat in the distance, its white sail taut and strong in the wind.
He stops again, slightly ahead of me, stooping to search for another flat rock. Finding one, he straightens, the flush slowly disappearing from his cheeks as the rush of blood retreats.
“I don’t think there’s much left to say.” he sighs.
My grip tightens and my jacket imprisons my thudding heart. I keep my head down, eyes on the lick of foam coating the toes of his shoes.
“So, you’re just giving up?” I intend to sound indignant, but I come off damaged instead.
The rock rolls over and under, back and forth, between his long, slender fingers and I watch it for a while, wishing it was the only thing in danger of losing its footing.
“I can’t be what you need.” his head sags, a long breath escaping him as he continues to manipulate the pebble.
I scrape my gaze off his shoes and look up at a griping Gull. My eyes sting with a forlorn pairing of salty spray and briny tears.
A small part of me wants to argue, to convince him to try but a wiser part of me wants him to fight. After all, if I have to persuade him, what’s the point?
With a flick of his wrist the rock loses its balance, leaping headlong into the deep.
As it disappears through the break it makes in the water’s continuous surface a strong wind takes hold of the boat in the distance, assaulting its sail, leaving torn flaps of cloth floating in its wake.
© 2012 The Wrought Writer