Cyrus
May 2020
Late spring. Morning cold. A small wooden boat emerges from the mist, sliding forward with each pull on the oars. The inner harbour is so mirror smooth it shows each ripple as it radiates outwards before stretching and breaking against the bow.
The rowing boat follows the grey rock wall, past the fishing trawlers and yachts, until it reaches a narrow shingle beach.The lone occupant jumps out and drags the boat higher up the stones where it cants drunkenly sideways, looking clumsy on land. Elegance lost.
The hood of an anorak is pushed back and hair explodes from inside. True red hair. Red as flame. Red as the daybreak. She takes a hairband from her wrist, looping the tresses into a single bundle that falls down the centre of her back.
My breath has fogged up the window of my room.Tugging my sleeve over my fist, I wipe the small square pane of glass to get a better view. She’s finally here. I have been waiting six days. I have walked the footpaths, visited the lighthouse, and exhausted the menu at O’Neill’s Bar & Restaurant. I have read the morning newspapers and three discounted novels and listened to the local drunks tell me their life stories.
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