9/23/18:
Working on this piece of fiction:
The ceiling fan was on slow,
spinning under the dark ceiling, the fan he has used to settle his mind was
turned off since it was chilly with the wind coming off the water.
The
beach is a five minute walk from the cottage.
Yesterday, he took a long run, fifteen miles to prepare for a half
marathon. After the run, he changed and
walked down to the beach. No one was in
the water, it was chilly. The water was
dead low and he gingerly walked as far as he could, stepping over rocks,
considering there could be shards of glass somewhere and a deep gash could be
an emergency. There were no broken
bottles, but there were a lot of rocks and the further he walked away from the
beach, the more rocks. He assumed the
water would get deeper. It didn’t,
staying up to his knees. Looking out
into the water, it appeared it was shallow for another 100 yards. Instead of
trudging further out, he found a spot and plopped his body into the cool
water. The water was warmer than the air,
and he wanted to stay in for as long as possible. The tide was coming in, but it would be hours
before he was able to run into the water and go for a real swim, perhaps the
summer was over he thought as small waves crashed around his head.
This
was supposed to be the place he could walk down to the beach at any time and
get in a swim. He could count on one
hand how many times he went swimming over the summer, well maybe seven which is
closer to the truth. The sky was clear,
the Connecticut cities across the Sound were clear, he could make out buildings. He was the only soul in the water and to the
folks walking on the beach, wearing jackets, Martin looked like a man desperately
capturing the loss summer. Typical for
him. Always clutching onto to the last
bit of summer.
Standing
up, the swimming suit was cold against his penis. The rocks he avoided were under his toes, and
yet the water was clear enough to make out the dark objects under the salty
surface. He dressed quickly, walked back
up the beach, found a broken Becks bottle of beer and tossed the shards into
the sea grass, away from any unsuspecting foot or potential beach blanket.
Walking
back to the cottage, he had one thought, taking a warm shower and yet there was
the thought that the ever present homebody, Wayne the owner of the cottage
where Martin rented a room would see Martin and jump into the shower. It has happened frequently, Martin goes out
for a run, who’s in the shower when he gets back? Wayne had an hour to jump in, and yesterday,
he had two full hours and even longer since Martin walked down to the
beach.
The
front door was open, music playing on his stereo and the bathroom door was
closed, he called it. Wayne was in
there, either taking a shit of taking a shower.
Martin went into his room and heard the shower and gave him the finger.
Thank you for reading this
