Ascent and Descent

The sand was cool and firm beneath her feet. The sharp air bit at her bare arms, drawing goose pimples from them. She looked up at the grey sky and recalled, almost more vividly than she saw the present, how, on this beach, under a sky much bluer than this, his Irish accent had ascended and descended each word as he asked her to marry him. How afterwards they’d curled up on the floor of his boat in the nearby harbour and talked about their future. Together.
She took a step forward, noticing only how the texture of the sand changed as she got nearer to the water, jumping as a gull cried at a sudden gust that whipped her hair and tugged at the material at her feet.
The dress had been the first thing she’d thought about, taking careful months of consideration to settle on a creation in white with a long train that swept behind her as she practiced walking down the aisle.
It trailed in the sand now, getting dirtier and dirtier as she made her way toward the sea. Leaving a line behind her that marked her journey.
Mike had always loved the sea, feeling its pull every now and again and disappearing off in his little sailing boat for a day or two, coming back wind swept and browned. She loved his passion, and knew there was no one safer in a boat.
The water was icy, paralysing her toes as soon as she dipped them in, but she ploughed on nonetheless, wading in until her lower half was surrounded by the freezing channel and that special wedding dress floated like an aura around her.
The day he left was just like all the others.
He kissed her on the forehead.
“I’ll be back by tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”
“No, you won’t.”
“No, but I will be back.”
He grinned at her and she grinned back before he sloped off with his bag of supplies. Just like all the other times.
Two weeks on and all her hope was gone, only one thought remained; she’d said she would marry him, so she would.
The cold water surrounded her, but she could almost feel the warmth of his hand round hers, so she accepted it and walked on.

Lizzy had been staying in Martin’s B&B for three weeks, ever since she realised her fiancé wasn’t coming back.
“If I stay in the house I won’t stop crying.”
She was crying now. She kept looking back over her shoulder and he could see that her eyes were red and her face was wet, though she didn’t seem to see anything.
She looked like something out of a painting or some art house film; dark hair whipping round her hair, dress floating in the water, brooding sky behind her. She was like a romantic poet’s heroin, but he couldn’t see the beauty knowing what she was trying to do.
His limbs flailed madly as he ran, helter-skelter down the beach, his lungs competing with the elements as her called her name.
She was just submerged when he grabbed her, dragging her away from the black waves. She flailed and screamed for him to let go before collapsing onto him. He lowered her down until they were both sitting on the wet sand.
“I just got a call. A man was washed up off the Scottish coast a week ago. He’s just come out of a coma.”
Lizzy looked up at him and he could almost see her heart in her mouth as her breath came in ragged gasps.
“Says his name’s Michael O’Donnell. Says his fiancé’s probably worried sick.”
The tears came in earnest now, but there was a definite difference to the air around her. If he was a more poetic man, Martin would have said her relief was tangible.
“I believe a plane leaves Gatwick every half hour,”
Grinning, she almost leapt up and began moving away, back toward the house.
“However, I don’t think they let you on if you’re wet.”