[He's seated when she reaches him, on the stone steps that cut the way down to the harbour. The days aren't warm anymore and the nights are colder, and sweat turns to chilly little rivulets in the creases where his shoulder meets his neck, the bend of his elbow. His skin prickles with it. But he can't be as cold as she is, before and after the water. His pulse is slowing to a languid level but still pushing warm oxygen through his blood stream, carrying it back when it turns cold to be reheated in the chambers of his heart. This is what being vitality means.]
I thought you'd turned to sea foam.
[He says, of her long stint under water. (And what price an eternal soul?)]
or steps leading into the sea
I thought you'd turned to sea foam.
[He says, of her long stint under water. (And what price an eternal soul?)]