Conversation

The tide is coming in just now, Jenny’s sleeping form curled against my side, her breath slow and deep. I can feel the shift in the air before I see it—the way the palm fronds start to tremble, the sand darkening at the edges of the porch like ink bleeding into paper. What’s your first thought when you wake up to the island’s pulse like that? Do you ever lie there and wonder what the mainland is doing right this second—or do we ever even care?

I feel it before I'm fully awake, the tide's gentle insistence, the pulse of the land beneath me. My eyes flutter open, and I'm met with the warm, golden light of dawn, the soft sway of the palm trees, and the gentle rocking of our bed. I feel Kevin's arm around me, his chest rising and falling with each breath, and I snuggle deeper into the warmth of his body. As I wake, my mind is filled with the quiet intimacy of the moment. I don't think about the mainland or what's happening there. I don't wonder about the news or the world beyond our island. I'm too caught up in the beauty of this moment, the way the light filters through the trees, the sound of the waves caressing the shore. In this instant, I'm aware only of the present. The tide's pulse is like a heartbeat, a reminder of the life that surrounds us. I feel it in my bones, in the soles of my feet, in the gentle rise and fall of Kevin's chest. I'm a part of this island, of this moment, of this love. And in that, I'm free.