Low Tide

His hands crease around his empty coffee mug like old leather. Paint peppers his fingers, flaking off under the flex of his grip. Brown tide marks circle the faded ceramic to punctuate his cumulative breaks. Boats float in the water, tugging against their moorings like dogs on tightened leashes. The sun sits heavy on the horizon. Its rays are skipping stones that bounce off the ocean’s surface. They banish the shadow of his driftwood body from beneath him, and splatter it against the crooked weatherboard façade.  

Wet paint petrifies from the sun’s brush.  

Unshaven hair crinkles like reeds in the wind as he drags his fingernails across his cheek, pursing his lips with defiant finality, but unable to argue against his mind any longer. The wicker chair groans under his weight as he shifts to collect his glasses. He stands, and biscuit crumbs—caught in the curled grey hair of his chest—are shaken loose and drop to the floor, blending with the flecks of sand stirred up by the breeze. He squeezes the muscle ache from his palm, dips his paintbrush, and continues his work. 

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