Tabula Rasa

The smell of salt and places that don't exist anymore. Warmth radiated from rough hewn stone. He stood reluctantly and noticed tight skin; closing his hand into a fist he relished the briny dryness. Bare feet traversed smooth flagstones as he walked back towards the small town; inky silhouettes against a bruised sky. Conversation and laughter drifted on the breeze and mixed with the lapping water. The church bell tolled and he was jerked from his reverie; he was late. He quickened his pace and realised for the first time the goosebumps on his skin. He pulled his shirt over his head. As he entered the main square of the town he suddenly felt starkly out of place, incongruously casual amongst the denizens of the night emerging in their finery; he wove through the crowds feeling dirty and unkempt, trying to avoid brushing his briny body against their brilliance. A feather soft punch. Her smell. Nausea and hope. Sorrow and joy. He scanned the crowd frantically but they wash around him like a waning tide; time flowing against a rock lodged in the past. She is gone. She is gone. His world darkens myopically. He finds himself at his hotel room, key in hand. The door opens and his wife is there, dressed for dinner. She looks at him blankly; she will meet him downstairs. He showers, washing off the memories of the day. Washing the ocean from his hair. The warmth of the sun from his skin. Her smell lingers. He dresses quickly and joins his wife. They choose their food in silence and drinks arrive. She asks about his day, but he cannot express the vastness of the ocean beneath the blue sky; the sight of a small fish darting around his toes; the smell of sunscreen and cheap novels; hot sand; plunging deep into the cold water and becoming microscopic in inanity of the human endeavour against the profundity of nature. He grasps at their amorphous forms and returns with hands bare. It was really nice, he says. She talks about her plans for the next day; a small chapel on the hill. He listens. He doesn't listen. A velvet hand grasps him by the throat. Her laugh. A wisp of golden hair disappearing around a door. He stands abruptly, jolting the table and spilling his beer. His wife watches him as he mumbles something and moves towards the entrance. She is there with her back to him, waiting for someone to pay the bill. He strides towards he and spins he round, grasping both arms. She yelps. He stares at her face. It is all wrong. She looks at him, afraid, and wrenches from his grasp. A sickening weight presses down on his chest; his throat; his heart. He apologies and stumbles away, back to his table. Beer drips slowly onto an empty chair. She is gone. She is gone.