The Lear Library

This was a departure from my usual writing style, as it was in the first person. I’d been in a bit of a strange mood, and this was the result. It was a bit of an experiment with my style, and one that was interesting… though I would end up not adopting the first person style. Writing narratives seems to come more easily to me in the third person.

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You and I… we had been together almost two years by this point. We had met on the seafront. You had been walking across the sea-wall, hopping from rock to rock with a devil-may-care attitude. I had been sitting, listening to the gentle ebb of water and the jarring call of gulls.

There had been a moment of simple childish wonder, a meeting of two like-minded souls who had deigned to avoid the tourists further down the coast to come to this bleak location. We both knew that not more than two miles up the coast there was a cheap resort, and less than a mile down a river flowed into the sea, water perpetuating itself.
You had sat, and we had talked. Then, through some obscure manner of compromise, I had decided that walking along the sea-wall was absolutely imperative.

The day had passed, and we had remained in each others’ company. We had parted with a brief kiss that had tasted of salt and a hint of alcohol, and I had slept with the comfortable knowledge that inside my coat pocket was a diary, and that diary contained eleven precious digits; the code to your voice.

A time of tentative dating passed slowly, a strolling, comfortable chrysalis for what would become our love. We had both known it was coming. Like the formation of mountains, this was something inevitable, inexorable and completely natural. My joy knew no limits as long as my hand enveloped yours. And you would smile in such a way that I would see the very edge of your two front teeth and it expressed everything you had ever meant to say to me.

Hard times eventually came, and we stood by each other through adversity. You had said;
“Things come and pass, like our sea. Tomorrow, the sand will be smooth again.”
And you smiled, which would make my heart swell.

Until you discovered your father’s debts when he died, and your brother’s unseemly predilection for drugs. Money… became a problem.
And now it has been two years and you stand in front of me. You stand, and the wind rushes about your hair. A windswept angel.

Tears… hot, tired tears. I see now that you are so tired of being calm, of waiting and saving, and sensible bank managers in stupid ties who smile with just their mouths.

You stand by the edge of the bridge spanning the river, and you cry. I am numb. I can only wonder what I can do, and think that soon your tears will be absorbed by the sea, adding to it an inexplicable part of you.

And when you decide to fall…

I am not upset. And I am not guilty. I am finally calm, and I walk to our car.
I drive down to the sea, and I walk out onto the dunes. I listen to the soft ebb, and the jarring gulls.
And I know, like all things, you will return to the sea. And you will gaze up at me with your calm eyes as you lie, waiting for me. And I will lie with you, and take you in my arms.

And we shall listen to the sea.