I leave him lying on our towel in the dunes, well hidden and protected from the breeze. I can’t curl up there. The towel is too small for the both of us, and the Marram grasses scratch at my ankles and thighs so that I keep swatting at them, thinking that there is some winged creature landing on me. Besides, after so many insomniac nights, even the bright shock of a late spring sun and sky can’t prevent him from drifting away from me. For a while I watch his chest move. The twitch of a leg. Then I get up and pick my way down to the water, the loose sand catching between the sole of my foot and my sandal.
Issue 8
WRACK WAKE
Emma Jones is an essayist and arts writer. Her main focus is photography, and she regularly writes reviews and artist profiles for online, magazine and book publications. In 2023, she was the lead writer for the photography festival Peckham 24.