The View from the Morning

a Palace Players piece (IV)

In the early morning, she brewed a cup of coffee and took it out onto the dock.  Hair piled into a lopsided bun on her head, she watched the fog whisper over the shoreline, gently receding as the morning took shape.  Since the breeze was warm enough, she slipped into the cool water, sinking beneath the waves to listen to the silence.  She emerged with dark red hair streaked across her forehead and the reticence she generally felt hanging around her neck slightly looser.  It was enough.

     She sat for a while on the dock, feet tapping on the surface of the lake.  The black coffee steamed beside her and in the distance, a small sailboat skimmed seamlessly along the water.  As she watched, the boat came closer until it was only a few hundred yards away.  There seemed to be only one passenger, a man with dark hair and eyes working a rope attached to the sail.  He wore a grey sweater and heavy work boots, which provided solid traction for working on the slippery bow.

     He raised his hand as he passed, greeting her in the age-old way of old friends and sometime acquaintances.  She smile and waved back, suddenly very aware of her mascara-less eyes underscored by puffy half moons.  The night before had been difficult in ways she didn’t feel equipped to explain.

     “Hi!”  He said.  “Feeling any better?”

    Confused, she squinted, wishing she’d put brought her glasses outside.  Something was unbelievably familiar about this man, something that brought up clove cigarette smoke and the feel of warm flannel against her cheek…

      “I…. I’m fine, thanks,” she said.  “Much better.”

     He looped the rope around a metal post on the side of the boat.  The wind had stopped and the boat, along with its captain, sat most contentedly in the water.  “Can I come ashore?”

     She laughed.  “So formal, Captain?”

     He smiled.  “I prefer old fashioned.  There are worse things, don’t you think?”

    Her smile faded.  It gave away more than she intended, so she switched topics.  “I have coffee in the house.  I suppose I kind of owe you a cup.”

    Inside, he sat at the counter, hands wrapped around a blue ceramic mug.  She stood at the stove, scrambling eggs with Gruyere cheese and chives.  Her hands shook nervously, so she pushed the eggs around more forcefully than necessary.  He was talking about his boat, the way the mist made it difficult to sail, how he wanted to get a foghorn or something to make it safer.  She listened with one ear, the other tuned to the hiss of the eggs as they cooked… Some secret part of her held back, silent and hesitant… The only open part ran forward, desperate to be wrong.

(you can read more Palace Players pieces at this blog and by checking out www.iminthemiddleofyourpicture.wordpress.com)

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