Salt

It was hard to believe that it had only been one week. Already, Victoria felt like a widow, rattling around an empty house. Christian was still asleep. It would be hours before he woke up.

In the midst of her stress, she had taken to accumulating cephalopod paraphernalia as a new way of disguising herself. Two green glass tentacles, complete with suckers, snaked their way through her ears. An octopus clutching at an anchor had replaced the usual owl pendant around her neck. Silver tentacles even wrapped themselves around the delicate, stamen-like stem of the wine glass she was holding. It was only full of orange juice, but she held it like a chip on her shoulder, anyway, half-wielding it through the empty air.

These latest trinkets had come from the touristy shops in the village, and were new additions to her camouflage. The crushed silk skirt, which wafted at uneven lengths around her ankles like a deflated parachute, was something she had owned before, but never worn in quite the same way. Now, whenever she stood still with her long ringlets hanging down, she appeared to be half-drowned.
She didn’t look at all siren-like, but that wasn’t her intention.

Forget about Ariel, she thought, she was going to be all about Ursula.

Mermaids were becoming cliché, but there was still a lot to be said for wicked witches who were bitter and angry with the world, dwelling in stormy seas, and driving the waves mad enough to smash themselves against the cliffs. Victoria grated her teeth at the thought. At least being a witch was a little bit empowering.

She did a circuit of the cottage, but it just as small as it had been the previous day. Pausing at the wide, bay window, she looked past the shining sun, the glittering water and the seagulls performing acrobatics like far-off arrows in the sky. Ignoring all of these things, she saw only how isolated the house seemed in the wake of calamity.

Only, she thought resentfully, there hadn’t really been any calamity.

She wished there had. Almost anything was better than the slow death she and Christian appeared to be suffering, like fish gasping for air. Staring out from the cottage at the jagged rocks that ended in the ocean was a bit like being under siege. The waves marched on, relentlessly. It was unbearable.

Eventually, she shunned the view, settling on another bath as a means of defeating time. She refused to sink into the lukewarm concoction she prepared for herself. Instead, she sat sullenly in the tub, stewing in soap, like an island amidst the lapping, perfumed tide with its pearly sheen.

It wasn’t long before the door creaked open. The loud splashing of the running bath had woken Christian up. He peered inside groggily, an almost suspicious look on his face.

‘Morning,’ said Victoria, swirling her arms languidly through the water.

‘Morning,’ he croaked. He hesitated, and then turned to leave.

‘No, wait,’ she begged him, trying not to sound too desperate. ‘Come drown with me?’

He shook his head, making off towards the kitchen, where she soon heard the ritual sounds of coffee being prepared. Huffing and towel-wrapped, she hurried after him.

‘Is everything okay?’ Christian eyed the trail of wet footprints behind her. The combination of the question its calm, even delivery stung her like a harpoon.

‘Is everything okay? How can you ask me that? You’re the one who’s been so distant, ever since we got here- spending half your time asleep and the other half avoiding me! This is supposed to be a break for us!’

‘Well,’ he began, with a pensive, rational demeanour that made Victoria furious, ‘maybe this was a mistake.’ His grey eyes avoided hers, denying her any emotion.

‘A mistake!’ she exclaimed, thinking that she must be as ugly as the witch she masqueraded as. She could feel her lips –blackened today- twisting into all kinds of hideous shapes. ‘That’s easy for you to say! What am I supposed to do? You brought me here. This is your parents’ house. You can’t exactly get rid of me now! The plane doesn’t even leave for another two weeks.’ She clutched this last fact as logistical proof that this wasn’t –couldn’t be– happening.

‘No,’ he replied, calmly. ‘Of course I understand that. That’s why you can stay and I... I’ll be the one leaving.’

‘What?’

She would have gestured wildly, but she needed her hands to hold her towel against her dripping chest. She was suddenly aware of just how vulnerable she was. She was shivering. It made her feel foolish as well as lost, so she hugged her body tighter. ‘That’s it? When are you going? You can’t go now. Not like this...’

‘I’ve already packed.’

‘No...’ She shook her head.

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

For a moment, she stood dumbstruck, completely at a loss for what to say. Several possibilities occurred, but they each raced by too rapidly for her to grasp. Some seemed promising enough, but impossible to express, while others just seemed naïve- Where are you going? Why are you leaving? You can’t leave me in your parents’ house! What about this whole year, just gone? What about last Christmas? What if we started again? What if we could go back in time? What went wrong? We were supposed to be together forever...

‘What am I supposed to do, then?’ she managed finally. Heartbroken pragmatism won out over denial.
Christian responded with an uncomfortable shrug.

‘Whatever you want.’