waves
Some are big. Some are small. And some quietly snatch you off balance.
I’m leaving the Empire theatre when he sweeps in with the wind, bringing the salt of the ocean and the weight of an oncoming storm.
I don’t look at his face. Just his form under a jacket, broad, firm. Behind him the world glitters like sunbaked water just before the surface breaks.
He passes.
My held breath becomes a rush of air.
rock pools
Some lives are like the ocean, always moving, always changing. Then there are lives like mine. Rock pools. Stuck, waiting for the wave that left them to come back.
My pocket buzzes.
My agent.
. . . they’ve decided to go in another direction
A sticky laugh escapes. My grip on my phone grows sweaty. At least they bothered to give a rejection at all.
I should be used to this feeling.
It wasn’t a big role. Just enough for rent, groceries, and a month of not spiralling into overdraft. I tap my phone and shake it, like maybe I can magic up a different response.
With heavy limbs, I sink the few steps to the bus stop.
A seagull lands on the pavement beside me, sizing me up. It squawks, like some kind of judgement, and takes off again.
Spying the bus trundling down the road, I quickly check my snapper card. Twenty cents in the minus. The bus doors hiss open, and I shake my head and move away from the stop. I’ve got thirty-five dollars left, and I promised—swore—I’d pay last month’s studio costs upfront this time.
A gust of wind kicks a kid’s beach bucket across the footpath. The ocean is a series of rumbling crashes as waves pull in and out. I kick off my jandals and step onto the sand, bury my toes and blink against the glare off the water.
Near the rockpools, a little girl stops short.
“Mum,” she calls, pointing. “Look! A family of starfish.” She inspects closer. “Oh, this one’s dead.”
Her mother, already a few steps ahead, sighs and doubles back. “Don’t touch it.”
I pass close enough to catch a glimpse. The starfish is dried stiff by the sun, and curled in on itself.
The mother hesitates, then crouches. Scoops up a handful of sand and lets it spill over the body. “Better not let the others see.”
The girl watches and nudges the pile with her foot. Her mother takes her hand, and they move on.
The wind shifts. The sand scatters.
I don’t mean to stop, but I do.
For a moment, I just look.
Something in my ribs tightens; a familiar clench, like trying to keep balance when a wave withdraws too fast.
I crouch, dig into the damp, heavier sand beneath the surface, and press it over the mound.
The tide is as far out as it gets. This’ll stay hidden a while.
