The fisherman

The fisherman felt his feet sink into the sand. He looked at the sea. He did not see any color, only darkness.  The sound of salt water. The smell of open sky. The feeling of ordinariness.

He looked at the shapeless shore, the curves of nobody. He then turned his eyes to his house, watched his wife through the window pane.

He knew that a few minutes later she would go to bed, the aflame eyes watching the darkness, her half open lips faking a smile. They would stay in bed, their bodies contorted by  insane moves of love.   

There was the smell of her skin in the air.

Their house was devoid of traces of intimacy. For him, the intolerable distance between them seemed more vivid than the eroticism lurking beneath the sheets. For her, everything was trivial, she acted with youthful impetuousness, even when her eyes seemed a bit aloof and endless seconds passed between each blink. Endless seconds of pleasure or fully realization they would never belong to each other.

 When morning came, repressing the putative happiness he had felt the night before,   he looked at the sheets, still wrinkled. She was not there anymore. She had never been, she was only the mermaid of his dreams.

 He laid his head on the pillow where her curls should have slept. He put his face down in it. There was a strange smell of sea. 

 

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