An ephemeral world

Morning came as moist slaps on his buttocks. He woke with a start and through the threads of early morning slime in his eyes, he checked the sea for signs. He stared at the expanse of undulating gray. Over the past few days he looked at the sea as one does a wife caught red-handed in adultery. He had always turned his gaze on the waves as a farmer might look at his patch of earth; she was his playground, his tilling ground and now she was a graveyard but not as dead as one. Another lusty tongue of brine reached under his towel to lick him. With recently learned panic he moved back using his hands to drag him away from the cool infinity that had devoured most of his village and all of his respect for her; where there is fear, respect is contrived.
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