Low tide: 12:27 pm
His face is soft from three weeks worth of beard growth, his hair uncut since the spring. I am blocked in against the granite of the island. The lights are off and the kitchen is grey, lit only by the skylights above as the rain pours in sheets down the glass. I can't hear it, I feel the rumble, a quavery-light undercurrent to the air, thick and heavy with a post-storm stillness.
He bends his head down until our eyes are even. Blue and green make the color of the sea. Together we are high tide, the dangerous part of the day where you cannot walk on the sand because it's been swallowed by the waves, which now lick against the rocks, seeking further nourishment. I would heave myself into the surf only she keeps throwing me back.
Too small to keep, she says.