He’s returned from the sea, as he’d always sworn he would.
“There is no ocean” he’d once said grimly, “that can separate us.”
Bleached by sun, sea and salt, he is scarcely recognisable, apart from his faded denim jeans and a now-tattered tee shirt.
She lays her forehead in the hollow of his cheek, after drinking in every detail of his body.
“I’m sorry” she whispers, before sitting back on her heels and reaching for her phone.
Now that she is sure the sea, her willing accomplice, has removed all evidence of that night, it’s time to call the coastguard.
Friday Fictioneers with one of my own photos taken in my new home town. Thank you, Rochelle. 🙂Been missing in action for a couple of weeks, revisiting old haunts and meeting up with old friends and neighbours in Spain. The final days of our visit coincided with the worst April floods (La Gota Fria) for 50 years, but that was a mere blip on a very happy experience. Happier still, to be back on