The Sea

One of the things that he'd always hated about the house was how out of place it looked sitting there in the middle of a subdivision that had sprung up naturally over the course of several years.  He liked the fact that the subdivision hadn't been a planned thing; no developer had carefully charted out its winding streets into nice, neat grids and dead ends.  But the house itself was so severely out of place that he wondered whether or not it had been built by accident.

The problem with the house was this:  it quite simply looked like it belonged on the sea shore, and not in the middle of a subdivision.  He was never quite able to pick out exactly what made him think that the house belonged on the shore—something about the way the balcony was almost an entire porch, perhaps.  He hated it for reminding him of the sea, because every time he thought of the sea his heart ached and he had to quickly take a drink or turn on the television or have a cigarette or anything that would distract from the memory of those grey waters under an equally grey sky, or of the scent of the air, or the sound of the waves rolling upon the shore.

Sooner or later, he always wound up wondering if he'd made the right decision, leaving the shore like that.  Too much left unsaid, too little closure achieved by such an abrupt departure made in the heat of the moment.  He could smell the wood smoke from the bonfire they'd had the night he'd decided to leave for good and never return, when the inevitable estrangement from her had finally reached its anticlimax and he'd told her that he was glad to be her friend even as he mentally made plans to never speak to her again.

Some things are foolish to run from.  Some things aren't.  He was certain, or had been at least, that his decision was the best option.  That there had been more chance of stopping the tide than of remaining friends.  But the more he thought about it, the less certain he became.

And the house only made it worse.