1

I was never with her.

There was always some distance between us. Whether it was miles or disagreements, conflicts or unfortunate circumstance, she and I never were really as close as we thought. Not to say that our late night banter and our excursions to small restaurants meant nothing, not at all. We got along quite well, and the attraction was there. We just didn’t understand each other like we hoped, I suppose.

The first night I remember with her, I cannot recall without a pair of rose-colored glasses. She stood outside the pub, a beer and cigarette in each hand. The air was cold and lifted the stray pieces of brittle hair to obstruct her pale face and high cheekbones. Her eyes were planets, but I’d never seen a planet so lost, like it had lost its orbit.  I was far from sober but not incoherent enough to approach her without qualms.

               I was home for a spell, as the weather didn’t permit sailing at the time. I’d never shied from something so minor as weather, at least, minor in contrast to other things that could go wrong at sea. Wrecking was never on my mind, never a fear. An overturned boat and a drowned crew, days of exposure and dehydration, no, that was never something I had imagined could happen to me. I didn’t know such desperation, nor could I imagine it. But I learned. I met Ondine and I realized I could learn at a surprising rate.

               Nevertheless, I approached her. I mentioned that she was out here alone, and asked of the circumstances, and I recall the disdain on her face. I recoiled as I felt the sting of her criticism of me already, and wished I had not intruded so rudely into her night. I apologized with a smirk and turned to leave, but her lips parted and a frail hand lifted to stop me. She told me she had come here alone, that her night had been rocky, and her apologies for being snide.

I shook my head at her. “No, ma’am,” I retorted. “I have no business with you and no right to interrupt you.”
“You are not interrupting much,” she replied with a dry chuckle, putting her cigarette out on the brick wall. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m with friends,” I answered hesitantly. “I am home from work for a few days, until the weather clears up.”

“A sailor? Fisherman?”

“Captain, yes.”

“I do enjoy my saltwater fish,” she said, lips pursed into an almost mocking smile.

“The name is Adam.” I wanted to brush off what felt like being insulted, but wasn’t even certain if I had been insulted. “You might be?”

“I might be your soulmate,” the girl replied smugly, “but my name, for certain, is Ondine.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Ondine,” I said, making my best efforts to remain courteous, despite her bitter disposition.

“You as well, Adam,” she said, finishing her beer and looking up at me. Her eyes were amber and so lost, and I drowned in them for the sweet moment she allowed me in. Half of a second later she spun, her dry hair suspended in the air with her movement, falling to her shoulders as she walked away from me.

That night she left with just a small wave, not even a goodbye.