Below, It Waits

Some stories need fire to stay buried; others wait.

The whistle sounded first—off-key, smug. Then Gary entered as if the world revolved around him.

“Honey, I’m retiring. Let’s sell everything, buy a sailboat, and see the world.”

His eyes held a calm, blue hue—never quite reaching the shore.

“With our two yacht club lessons?” I said. “That’s ambitious.”

“You only live once.” He grinned, already halfway gone.

His laptop showed searches in the den. I sat to look at it, humouring him while he was outside.

Minutes later, I found it—a folder that I was not meant to find. Costa Rica with him and another woman. The house sold. The money split—laid out—the future he planned without me.

Something inside me shifted.

Twenty-seven years reduced to a coffee stain on the counter, lipstick blurred. We used to race for the better pillow and laugh until one of us gave in. I couldn’t recall when the playfulness stopped.

I closed the file and practiced my smile in the dark window.

It spread slowly, slower than rage.

Maybe fear. Or something else that was born from it.

I’d taken sailing lessons while Gary worked—small acts of rebellion. I liked how the boat responded to the wind, not commands. The ocean didn’t care who gave orders.

“Be prepared,” something inside whispered.

We bought the boat—Water Soused, his joke. I laughed at his joke.

For a while, the sea blurred its edges. He posted photos making him look beautiful alone. I smiled beside him, counting miles.

He suggested a hike inland to Montélimar—famous, apparently, for lost spouses.

I declined.

He went anyway.

While he wandered, I filed the report—missing. Gave him his passport. Returned to the boat, waiting for the sky to change.

That night, the water rose fiercely. Ten-foot waves slammed the hull. He sat on deck with his scotch and cigar, watching as if he controlled the storm.

“Gary, I need to lie down,” I said. “My head.”

He nodded, distracted.

Below deck, inside me, something pressed outward, steady as breath. Something had taken hold.

I quietly ventured to the deck, as still as a sleeping child.

The oar was just where I left it.

My hands trembled as I approached him, standing and looking at the storm. The first swing struck his neck, and I saw his feet follow his body over the boat’s edge.

For a moment, I thought the sea might return him. It didn’t.

The boat steadied. The clock ticked once.

Morning came, clear and indifferent.

In Costa Rica, I told them he’d gone hiking in Nicaragua. The officer looked at the bruise on my arm, stamped the passport, and moved on.

I kept sailing.

The ocean reveals truths people can’t see. Rope scars bloom across my palms when I scrub the deck.

At night, I feel a steady knock below.

The winds carry crooked tunes. I ignore them.

Some things, once opened, don’t close.

Below, it waits.