The sun forced itself to rise earlier as Spring approached, and so did he. He would dress quietly in the weak sunlight that began to penetrate their bedroom windows, careful not to make a single sound. His lips would curve into a small smile as he found himself watching her as he stood at the end of their unkempt bed, her eyes twitching behind their lids. The room was not a large one, nor was it tastefully decorated. The floor boards moaned underneath his bare feet and he had to step over piles of their creased shirts and balls of odd socks while he rummaged for a clean pair of underwear.

On the day that August rolled into September he awoke at six, slipping the covers from his body and tucking them more tightly around her. He sat and looked at her for a moment, he wondered what was going on behind those eyes. Her dark hair fell delicately over her face and her mouth hung half-open, as if she was about to whisper something that you had to lean in close to hear. She must have been dreaming. She looked peaceful, although her lips formed a frown and he wondered if she really was happy here. He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead; it felt warm.

He scrawled a note to her on a spare serviette even though he went out every morning to the exact same place. She usually slept until he returned and made breakfast for them both but sometimes he saw her standing at the bedroom window, gazing blankly across the vast ocean which engulfed him each morning. He would always surface at that point, as if her silhouette against the glass was a signal for him to come back.
'Do you have to go out every morning?' she had asked a week before. Her usually rich voice had sounded quieter, almost apprehensive.
'Yeah, I... why? Does it bother you?'
A few moments passed with no answer.
'Kirsten?'
'No. It doesn't.'
'Then what's the matter?'
'It would be nice to wake up beside you for once, that's all.'
'Come with me.'
She shook her head, and he had detected a flicker of something in her eyes. Her eyes, that effortlessly told you what she was thinking... but this time he couldn't quite decipher it.
'Why won't you?'
'It doesn't matter.'
She had walked away.

As he made his way to the shore he noticed the way that seaweed dotted the sand and left rippling imprints on its surface as if there was some message there for him to discover. The continual whoosh, whoosh of the breaking waves almost lulled him back to sleep but he couldn't help but feel the familiar sense of exhiliration and longing. His bare feet soon touched the moist planks of rotting wood that made up the pier. It extended like an arm; reaching into the depths. A few of the battered planks creaked underfoot from years of use. He walked the length of it, until his toes skimmed the edge. He threw his head back and breathed in the salty smell that lingered heavily in the air before he pulled off his shirt and hung it off one of the posts, it flapped in the harsh morning wind like a flag.
He bent his knees and squeezed his eyes shut.
He jumped.

Upon breaking the surface of the water he propelled forward viciously, cutting a streak through the water. He felt as powerful as a fighter jet, splitting the sky in two. He began to count methodically, though soon forgot if he was counting the number of strokes his arms made, or how many seconds had passed. It soon blurred into the same number and became meaningless, but gave him something to take his mind off the searing pain beginning to spread like fire through his tired limbs. He realised, all too suddenly, that if he were to drown nobody would know about it. Not even Kirsten who was fast asleep, too damn stubborn or afraid, or whatever it was, to come with him. He would simply lose consciousness and float. He would wash up on a foreign beach in Fiji or South America, the funeral would be small. He would only be missed by a select few, and then only for the duration until the seven stages of grief came to a close. Although the prospect of a free vacation to a Pacific island was tempting, he was not prepared just yet to find out what drowning felt like.

Hoisting his burning body from the water, he lay slumped across the pier, spread-eagled with his hands dangling off each side. The sun had risen. Lately he had been apprehensive to return home, the same comfort he received from a warm coffee and embrace had subsided in the past few days and he found himself staying out longer and longer. The thought of Kirsten no longer soothed his aching body, but only agitated it further. He didn't know what was happening, but he could no longer ignore it. Sighing, he rolled to his side and brought his knees up, watching the water droplets fall from his skin and pool onto the pier before being dried by the sun. It was a boring, simple process, though he couldn't tear his eyes away. The heat was like a blanket wrapping around his form. He closed his eyes.

He was startled awake a few hours, or was it minutes, later.
'Did you kill my plant?'
'What?'
He sat up on his elbows, the wood digging into his bare arms. Kirsten stood on the pier. She looked different out here in the open, a piece that didn't quite fit.
'My pot plant, did you kill it?'
'No.'
'Who else could have, then?'
'I don't know...'
'I don't want to argue about this. Just tell me if you did.'
'But I didn't. Sorry...'
'It's all wilted. Everything is all wilted.'
He nodded, agreeing to more than perhaps she realised.
She considered the water, then looked back at him. She seemed to come to some kind of understanding, nodding to herself reassuringly. She reached down, sliding off her khaki shorts and then began to unbutton her shirt.
'What are you doing?'
'You coming?' was all she said.
She discarded her clothes. He had never seen her do anything like this before, anything as remotely careless. It made him realise how different they really were.
Her feet pounded against the pier as she ran for the water. She leapt in before he could shout 'wait for me!"

He watched her laughing, throwing her head back. He touched her firm thighs with his fingertips and angled his body up against hers. She did not flinch or draw away from him, but smiled and kissed his wet lips.
'Kirsten.'
'Shh.'
'Can I ask you a question?'
'No.'
She pressed a finger to his lips. He tasted salt on his tongue.

It must have been lunch time when they separated themselves. He watched her silently as she returned to the pier and collected her clothes. He watched her as she made her way back up the beach. He did not expect her to glance back, and she did not. He did not follow, did not expect her to return, and she did not.