Every day his hands got a little bit softer, his skin a little lighter, and he hated it. He missed the wind, the chafing salt waves, the biting cold of the coastal dawns. He missed the breathless dance of dragging out the clawed creatures without getting pinched, the involuntary cursing when a wave crashed over the gunwales, the salt invading every crack in his coarse dry skin. Hell, he even missed the furious banter that bordered on harassment. Now--now--he realized what it really meant.
Tears stung in his eyes, but he bit his tongue and swallowed hard. Lobstermen don't cry, he shouted at his own weak self. But it was too late--his heart felt the tightening in his jaw and throat and refused to contain the grief any longer. The road blurred in front of him, and he yanked the steering wheel into the first open parking spot he saw.
Damn.
He'd parked directly in front of the footbridge, and the area still teemed with pedestrians. Even as he tried to swipe at his eyes without making a scene, an elderly couple hobbled by the passenger door, peering with unhidden interest into his truck cab. He swung open his own door, sliding out and slamming the door shut behind him. Striding past the now open-mouthed couple, he set his eyes ahead, determined not to be engaged by anyone else. He passed romantic-eyed couples, holding hands; boisterous families, attempting to curtail energetic children; calloused natives, keeping their eyes fastened on the ground.
When he realized that he'd escaped them all, he stopped, resting his arms on the railing and his eyes on the horizon. Somehow, though he'd grown up on the sea, the sunsets never failed to capture his attention. They always, somehow, seemed to be making a promise. Red sky at night, sailors' delight, he thought, echoing his dad's saying without even trying.
Dad.
Putting his head down, he wept, the salty tears dropping down and mixing with the ocean water below. He hadn't believed the words, when he left--you'll miss this place, son--but now he knew them to be true. And more than anything, he wanted it back. The back-breaking work, the cramped grey-shingled house, the rough coarse fiercely-loving camaraderie--he missed it all.
Oh, Dad . . . I want to come home!
But as he lifted his head, he knew with certainty that home-coming dream was just a fantasy. The man he knew and loved against his own will would never take back the person his son had become. Even as he wiped the tears from his face, he despised the hands without callouses, the arms without a tan. He had become weak, soft, and the tears proved it.
Lobstermen don't cry.
Damn straight, Dad.
He'd never go back home until he could prove that he was a real man, worthy to be called that hallowed name, lobsterman.
And by the looks of the tearstains on his shirt, that wouldn't be happening any time soon.
**
A year ago, she'd walked into his life, one night close to the sea. He'd seen her, swinging her skirt a little bit and laughing as she walked, and he'd walked right up to her and said hello. Looking back, he couldn't imagine what he'd been thinking--or maybe he was not thinking at all.
It'd only been a year, but already he knew most things more clearly than in all the twenty-seven years preceding. He knew that she loved starlight, and moon-risings over the sea, and rocky beaches. He knew that she liked to dance, but wasn't very good; that she sang with a peculiar unique sweetness, but was shy about her voice; that she hated wearing sneakers. He knew that her hand was small and often cold in his grip, that she tended to look down right before she said something brave, that she usually laughed right before she burst into tears. He knew that when she was angry, her eyes turned the colors of a hurricane sea, all green and grey and terror. He knew that she loved daisies of any sort, and could make a chain of them in less than a minute. He knew that she kissed like she meant it, that she preferred to hold hands and walk than make out. He knew that when she laughed in the sunset light, it looked like she was going to float away and become part of the sky itself. And he knew, at those moments, that he wanted to hold her just a little bit more tightly, to be sure, because it was then that he knew he wanted her to be with him for the rest of his life.
He knew exactly how, and when, and where, and what he wanted to ask her.
Parking his truck, he slid out, shoving the door closed behind him and striding onto the footbridge. He was too much focused on his own thoughts to notice the sideways glances of the people he passed. There was only one spot that would do, only one time, and that was where he'd very first seen her.
Right in the middle of the bridge, he stopped. This was it--the place he'd been standing when he saw her dancing toward him. He turned his head, leaning forward to rest his arms on the railing. This was the time, too, right between sunset and dusk. It was as if the sky itself was working to make his choice perfect, for as he watched, the sunset burst into flames. He stared at the horizon, not really seeing the beauty before him, but wrapped up in his plans.
Soon, he knew, he would come back here, but not alone. Next time, he'd come holding the hand of a girl who laughed and wore skirts while climbing rocks and gripped his arm like she'd never let go. Next time, he'd have a tiny treasure box hidden in his pocket, and next time, he'd turn her face toward the sunset and ask her the question that would change their lives. He knew it, knew it perfectly. He'd never known anything else, anyone else, so well in all his life.
He knew this was what he wanted--exactly what he'd always wanted.
Tell me, baby
What's your story
Where do you come from
And where you wanna go this time
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