8

We were back on the shore by three. I anchored and tied down the boat, then helped Ondine off. I locked the cabin, then climbed off the boat after her. She handed me my jacket with a thankful nod, and followed me back to our vendor’s booth. Ryan looked beyond indifferent as he fanned himself with dollar bills. I wished that I could have trusted another crew member with the money, but Ryan was the only one with enough seniority and enough on the line to not screw up.

               “Ryan, I told you that you shouldn’t leave the money out like that,” I chastised. “It attracts muggers.”

               “What else am I supposed to do?” he moaned, sitting up and putting the money back into its pouch. “I’m catering to ghosts.” I shook my head and took the pouch from him. I set it back on the table behind the crates of fish, then pulled out my wallet and handed him a twenty-dollar bill. He took it hastily and stood up to face me, glancing at Ondine and giving her a nod. “I’ll see you tomorrow captain,” he said in a fatigued voice, slapping my shoulder with a cupped hand. I winced, then waved him off.

               Ondine watched inquisitively from behind me and waved to Ryan as he left.  I turned to her. We stood still and held a mutually timorous gaze. “Thank you for letting me take you out,” I said dryly.

               “Thank you for taking me,” she replied, looking back out at the water. A sense of wonder engulfed her; I could see it. She folded her arms over her chest and hugged herself with a shiver. She pursed her lips and tucked the loose strands of hair behind her ear (as per usual). An outsider watching us would have thought we were performing some strange ritual, and it did feel that way. Our conversations were dry, with long pauses. But it made each word so much sweeter and so much heavier on my mind.

               “I should go.” She didn’t turn to me when she said it. I nodded and decided to look away. Although my spells of staring at her were often lengthy, I still felt uncomfortable about it once I realized what I was doing. I tucked my hands in my pockets and looked down at my feet.

               “Do you think you’d like to have breakfast with me in the morning?” I asked, my voice catching in my throat. My stomach dropped and I felt my palms sweating.

               “I wouldn’t mind at all.” I looked up at her. She had turned back to me, and a small smile graced her thin lips. A warmth welled up inside of me, starting in my belly, and rose up through my lungs to my cheeks. I grinned widely back at her.

               “Eight thirty?” I suggested. “At the café?”

               She tilted her head in a nod. “I’ll see you then.”

               The rest of the day was still slow. I sold maybe forty dollars’ worth of fish, and spent my downtime in my sketchbook. I etched in the faint crow’s feet and worry lines onto Ondine’s portrait, and added the inevitable flyaways from her loose ponytail. By eight, I’d done all I could. I took the pouch of money and tucked it into my jacket, the hurried over the convenience store to some more bags of ice. The clerk was indifferent, as usual, but she did give me a free bag of jerky. She said something about how her boyfriend had broken up with her for another woman. I offered my consolations, but she shook her head. “I didn’t need him,” she insisted. “I can do better.” But I still heard the painful emptiness of heartbreak in her voice. I thanked her for the jerky, then brought the ice back to the docks.

               I ate a few pieces of jerky before I began to tend to the fish, then began to carry crates to my boat and hose the fish off. I repacked the crates with ice and fish one by one, and put them away in the storage area of the boat. I collapsed the table and the tent and replaced them in storage as well, then locked up the boat. I wiped my hands off with an antibacterial wipe before finishing off the jerky the clerk had given me. I checked my watch and saw it was nearing nine. I grimaced and threw away my trash, then briskly made my way home.

               I entered my home greeted by the robust smell of rum and bananas. My mother had paid a ridiculous amount of money to attend bartending lessons. She didn’t even care to get a job, opting instead to live off of my father’s life insurance. Since she had taken her pointless, alcoholic-nursing classes, she’d grown to favor banana daiquiris, so our kitchen was rampant with half-empty bottles of rum, bunches of bananas, and other ingredients for a drunken state.

               My mother was reclined onto the couch, her drunken eyes locked on the television screen. A home and gardens show was playing at a low volume, and I knew she wasn’t listening. She always did this when someone denied her something. Everyone in town usually did her favors on a daily basis, because they had admired my father so much, and pitied my mother for losing him. So whenever something didn’t go her way, she overreacted and binged.

               “I’m home, mom,” I said loudly.

               She jerked from her trance and looked up at me, smacking her lips. “How was work, honey?” Her voice was dripping with artificial interest.

               “Fine,” I answered dryly. “How many drinks you had?”

               “Five?”

               I groaned, but went to the kitchen and put some coffee to brew, then got her a glass of water and some medicine for her head. I returned to the living room and took the empty glass in her hand and replaced it with the water and pills. She took them and downed the water in compliance, without me having to ask. This was a weekly ritual for us. I turned off the TV and lit a candle. “Your coffee is in the kitchen,” I told her. She nodded in understanding, and I retreated to my room.

               I hung my jacket on the back of my door and slipped out of my dirty jeans and sweater, tossing them into the laundry pile. I grabbed my towel, then hurried to the bathroom and drew a warm bath. I sunk into the water with a heavy sigh. I took care of the bathing obligations, then laid back to relax. The one time I had admitted to taking baths, Ryan had mocked me for the being effeminate. It bothered me primarily, and I’d limited myself to showers for a month after the incident, but I finally came to the realization that my comfort should not suffer because of Ryan’s meaningless remarks.

                I drained the cloudy water when it began to lose warmth. I dried quickly, then redressed in my bed clothes. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, all of the bedtime rituals, then returned to my room.

               My bed could not comfort my lonely heart that night.