Hank leaned back in the captain’s chair, propping his legs high on the railing of the small docking pier. He ran a finger beneath the hem of his white shorts; they looked florescent against the tanned brown skin of his leg.
Biting into his bottom lip, penitent thoughts filled his head—summoned, they seemed, from some dark recess.
How long had it been now? he studied the marsh; the setting sun muting the colors of the cattails and coarse grasses zigzagging with the sloughs and little creeks bordering its edge.
His eyes lazily followed the line of land southward to a sloop traveling slowly through the water, its sail tinted red in the evening light.
The sail luffed a bit and he watched as the man aboard tacked, dodged the boom and brought the sail to stand staunchly against the breeze.
How long had it been? he thought again, his eyes still fixed on the tinted colors of the scene—it brought to mind the words of an old song—the one about red sails in the sunset.
It doesn’t seem that long ago—time didn’t seem to have any meaning anymore. Hank envisioned his wife’s lips forming a smile; the image coaxed one from his own.
There she stood, her long frame leaning against the bowsprit of his sloop. Emma was so beautiful against the red of the sky, her sandy colored hair blowing wildly about her face.
That face—the sun always brought out the freckles on Emma’s face. And though she always scoffed about the sepia specks, Hank saw them as little badges of beauty. Each one made her more unique.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish