Penelope — some days later

I returned to the bench by the slipway, though I told myself I had not chosen it. The tide was out and the beach looked longer than usual, as though it had stretched while no one was watching.

I sat where I always sit. The wall was cold through my coat. I noticed this more than I should have. One expects familiar places to be accommodating.

There was nothing there that hadn’t been there before. No sign of occupation. Still, I had the odd sense of having arrived second. I checked the sand beneath the wall, then felt faintly foolish for doing so.

I stayed a shorter time than usual. The sea was quiet again. I found myself listening for it to do more, as though it might gather itself if encouraged.

On the way home I wondered whether people leave things behind without meaning to. Not valuables — just small proofs. Buttons. Stones. The sort of things no one claims, but someone always notices are missing.

It occurred to me that I had not asked his name. This felt deliberate in retrospect, though I cannot recall making the decision.

I expect I will walk the other way next time. It is good to vary one’s habits.