[It might be no coincidence that his routine has shifted by small but definite degrees since the prow of the Iris first hove into view, nudging up against the jetty and casting its shadow over the few clustered smaller boats that bobbed in moorings around it. Small, definite degrees, arcing his footprints across to where the sand meets stone at the harbour wall, until each day now takes him past the boat, along that quiet street by the water's edge, not too far down from where he, still, keeps a house on the beach. As an investment, a security. As a memory. It's less rough edged up here where the skyline bleeds into the cracks between apartment buildings, identikit lego blocks stretching to the skyline. The views from inside, at least, must be great.
Chase watches the water and not the road. He doesn't count the apartment lights as they start to flicker on to stare down the encroaching evening. He casts glances out towards the boat, searching for a light there, and watches the moonlight spill white across the water alongside her.
He's seen the light, once or twice. And run by.
This time it's the shadow across the moon he catches, and it stops him long enough to watch the water disturbed by long, reaching arms just under the surface, cresting the small breakers that lap the boat before pulling down again, another swimmer's stroke.
This time he doesn't just watch and go on. He waits for the silhouette to rise and he whistles, a long piercing tone in two dischordant keys. It's a sailor's whistle, a signal to souls lost at sea.]
or steps leading into the sea
Chase watches the water and not the road. He doesn't count the apartment lights as they start to flicker on to stare down the encroaching evening. He casts glances out towards the boat, searching for a light there, and watches the moonlight spill white across the water alongside her.
He's seen the light, once or twice. And run by.
This time it's the shadow across the moon he catches, and it stops him long enough to watch the water disturbed by long, reaching arms just under the surface, cresting the small breakers that lap the boat before pulling down again, another swimmer's stroke.
This time he doesn't just watch and go on. He waits for the silhouette to rise and he whistles, a long piercing tone in two dischordant keys. It's a sailor's whistle, a signal to souls lost at sea.]