Ferried by the wind, salt shoots up my nose. Blasts of air, not sparing in their rhythm crawl over my skin and I pain for water. Untrammelled waves crush any sand that lays crumbling on the beach. I see the man I was with last night – a half-smoked cigarette pendulous in his mouth like a secret.
He is still. As though he is stranded and doesn’t know where to go; not sure about how to spoor one foot in front of the other, or even how to breathe. The cigarette recedes to his lips and he spits it onto the sand. I don’t know who he is.
I walk to the bedroom, my eyes drop to the sheets and remember – nodding at the colours that I know have seeped through to the mattress. Worry abates, curiosity turns my lips upward. The wind swathes between the terrace door and the kitchen table. I walk to where the kettle clings to the bench, closer to the edge than I would like. I push it back, smell him behind me and drop my head.
Salt on skin
like raw sugar
yet not sweet at all