When the Tide Comes

The old man moves slowly now. It takes him longer to walk all the way to the beach. He goes through the mangrove trees following the narrow path to the shore. The sky is clouded. The wind is strong and the trees sway.

When he reaches the beach, he stops. He takes off his sandals and walks on the wet sand. It is winter and he knows he should not do that.

He looks at the road through the trees. The woman from the village arrives in an hour on her bicycle. She is forty now, he thinks. He never asked her age. They do not talk much. She comes to clean the house but that is not it.

He suggested it. Once a week, he pays her well. The husband is a fisherman and is away. He doesn’t mind the cash, the old man reckons.

They drink wine first. It gives her strength. There is nothing to like in an old man. But she comes and does what he asks. No passion, just the act. That is enough.

Afterward she makes coffee. They chat. She tells him about her kids and he gives advice. She listens. Sometimes she smiles.

The old man watches the sea. The waves are rough. The wind is cold. He does not know about kids. He was never a father to his child. He was on the oil rigs, earning a living, living away from them.

Now it is late. His son is in another country. Finance or marketing. They talk on the phone. He does not understand the boy. The boy has a child of his own and they never visit.

A gull flies over him, crying. The old man hunches to avoid it. His back hurts. He stands up and continues walking.

It is a small beach. A stretch of sand between the trees and the sea. When he was home from the rigs, he came here with his wife. They made small talk and then there was silence. She resented him for being away. He didn’t blame her.

Now he misses her. He misses the silence.

There is a rock by the water. The dog used to run around it chasing the birds. A big white dog. He would be behind the door when he came home and wag his tail.

The old man reaches the end of the beach. An old house sits on the rocks. The couple moved away years ago. They used to have cocktails on the porch. The man of the house liked the old man’s wife too much. He drank too much. It does not matter now. It never mattered.

The old man turns back. The wind hits his face and he staggers. He closes his eyes and breathes. He feels the cold in his chest. It is a sharp cold.

He sits down by the rock. The sand is wet and the tide is coming in. He thinks about the white dog. He does not see the dog, but he remembers the weight of the dog’s head on his knee.

He lies back against the stone. The wind blows the spray from the waves over him. He does not get up.

They find him a week later. The birds did not touch him. The tide had come and gone, leaving salt on his coat.