The Saltwater Hush

Back in the city, my life was a series of loud alarms and synthetic scents—the sterile smell of office air conditioning and the metallic tang of subway rails. I had forgotten what it felt like to breathe without checking my watch.
He didn't say much when he drove me here, just handed me a thermos of lukewarm tea that smelled faintly of honey. Now, standing in this shallow blue mirror at dusk, the water is cool against my skin, grounding me in a way no meditation app ever could. I can feel the salt crystallizing on my shoulders as it dries.
I look back at him on the shore, and for once, there's no pressure to be productive or polished. There is only this: the soft weight of my purple velvet bikini, the rhythmic pulse of the tide against my thighs, and a silence so thick you could almost wrap yourself in it like a fresh-from-the-dryer towel.
When he finally walks toward me, his footsteps splashing softly, I don't move. I just smile. In this vastness, we are small, but as he reaches out to brush a stray strand of hair from my face, the world shrinks down to the warmth of his fingertips—a simple truth that tells me I am home.

Editor: Laundry Line