Worth Her Salt

When people ask, I always tell them I didn't jump.

I was pushed, I tripped, you know how stormy it was that night: it was just a strong gust of wind. Something rose unprompted from the depths to drag me in.

Sometimes you just fall.

They nod in the way that says Sure, tell yourself that, and I smile in the way that says Please believe me, and we both pretend to forget three months ago, when I was dragged from the sea, still reaching for something that was never truly there.

I saw her for the first time in the doldrums of March, when we hadn't seen the sun since October. It wasn't really love at first sight -- I've never believed in such a thing -- but I couldn't deny that I was enraptured by how strange she was. She sat on the slimy staircase leading into the freezing harbor, legs resting in the brown high-tide water. It would not have been such a strange sight were it nice out, but that day could have never been called nice. The strong winds threatened to knock over anything in their way, bringing a fine cold mist with them. The sort of day that chilled you to your bones.

She smiled when she saw me. Maybe I should have realized all the things wrong with her face, her too-sharp teeth, too-big eyes then.

"Are you okay?" I asked. The air was just a hair above freezing with winds like this, but she sat half in the water, with wet hair dripping all over her thin dress. "Do you need somewhere to stay, or some sort of help --"

"Sit with me," she said.

When I look back, nothing I felt seems to have been true, but in the moment, I had been filled to the brim with fascination and desire. Did I truly love her, did she truly care about me? I was not the first man to be tricked by her kind, of course, but I can't help believing that my case was different from all those others, even after the end.

We always met by chance. I'd be out running an errand, or on my way home, or walking the harborside with a friend, and there I would catch her out of the corner of my eye. Feet in a puddle, dark brown hair soaking wet, a faint smile on her lips.

Maybe I should have noticed that she never left the water for long, that her hair never seemed to dry, that she walked with a grace that made her seem as though she swam through the air. But who am I to expect that I would have been the exception, that I could have avoided being blinded by her beauty or the way she hung on every word I spoke? Even though she never honored the plans I attempted to make, leaving me waiting by the docks for hours hoping she'd appear, I couldn't help falling deeper each time I saw her. And who was I to be bothered at the fact that I clearly cared more for her than she did for me? At least she cared at all, I reminded myself whenever I got frustrated that she refused to leave the steps to go into a shop, or walk up into the city to come to my favorite bar.

On a drizzly day in April, we sat outside a dockside cafe, her picking at a mostly-ignored muffin, me drinking a coffee, the chill in the air pushing through my coat and sweater. "Why don't you ever get cold?" I asked her.

"What do you mean?" she replied. I know now and I knew then that I should have left it there, should have taken it for what it was: the fact that I was lucky enough she spent time with me at all, that she left her home to sit in the rain with me. (Never mind I had absolutely no clue where her home was, that she refused to follow me to mine.)

"I mean, you're always sitting in the water, even when it's freezing, and it never bothers you," I said. "I've got on a wool sweater and a coat, and you aren't even wearing shoes."

She frowned. "Oh, it isn't that cold."

That's what I mean!, I thought and didn't say. I laughed it off, changed the subject. She pushed her chair around to my side of the table to awkwardly rest her head on my shoulder -- she was several inches taller than me -- and I took another step of my rapidly-cooling coffee, my questions burning up inside.

The weather got warmer. The water got warmer. I rolled up my pants to stand on the stairs with her, much to her delight. I ran down the street after seeing her, hoping she'd still be there in time for me to return with ice cream. I brought her all manner of juices and treats, and she brought me dozens of strange rings and pins I'd never wear.

Rings on my fingers, her hands sticky with sugar, we swam through the harbor as summer came upon us, the days getting longer and the nights brighter.

It was strange -- I'd never liked swimming before her, but her touch made me feel as if the water was where I belonged.

Each passing day, I wished to get closer. She always pushed me away at the last minute, which I respected, of course, but it had been three months, and we were young, and I could give everything up for her and her sea. All the time I spent with myself, I dedicated to reading, to thinking, to figuring out who she was, and by midsummer, I thought I'd figured it out. She was some sort of goddess, up from the depths for a fling with dry land, but I'd convinced her to stay -- or I would. Or perhaps she was a sea maid, like in the old tales, and she'd been enraptured by me, somehow -- she hadn't saved me from the waves, but she must have seen me before, must have fallen in love at first sight. If I couldn't convince her to stay, she would take me into the sea to stay with her forever. And all would be well.

We spent the longest day of the year floating in the sea, planning to stay all night until it began to rain, stronger than your ordinary summer squall. We stepped out of the waves together, and she gave me a quick kiss as the first thunderclap sounded, diving back into the depths while I pretended to turn my back.

I walked home in the pouring rain, surrounded by thunder and lightning, alone.

When I pushed open the door to my third-floor flat of a building with crumbling brick walls and a rotting shingled roof, I sat down on the floor, too far from the ground, too high above the waves. Until I could convince her to leave the seas for me, our lives would be a half-life, all nights like this: alone and lonely.

But I didn't have to fall for that! I didn't have to wait for her to come to me! I could go to the sea with her, and I could stay there. I could give all my days to the ocean and she would never have to give me anything in return besides the promise of never being alone again. And the promise that I wouldn't drown, I supposed, but that was an afterthought, a lower priority.

In a haze, I hurried back down the stairs, leaving my door wide open. I didn't care if anyone stole my things. I no longer needed them.

The weather had worsened: it was the worst storm we'd had in years. Lightning cut the sky seemingly every minute, and near-constant thunder rolled throughout the air.

I must have looked mad as I ran through the quickly flooding streets, soaked-through hair and clothes dripping both seawater and rain, returning to the waves. Everyone else was locked away in their homes, happy and drunk, and I was on my way to mine. Humanity had risen from the ocean long ago, but I still belonged there, I had to go back, I couldn't breathe up here. I had to get back to her, back to the sea.

Someone must have noticed me at some point, and decided to chase me down and save me. Or perhaps they wanted to join in on the fun. All they saw was a madman running along the slippery streets, planning to charge off the seawall into the raging waves. Perhaps they thought that I was trying to kill myself, or that I was disoriented and drunk. But oh, they were mistaken: my mind was clear. I was going home.

She was there for me. As I fell into the sea, some unknown current churned the waters, pulling me deeper, until she took my hand. Her mouth opened, but I couldn't understand what she was saying. She held me tight and dragged me to the depths where we belonged.

My ears burned with the pressure of the water, and my lungs threatened to burst. I took a deep breath. After all, I belonged here. We belonged here. She would let me breathe.

When I started choking, she laughed.

It wasn't a laugh born of shock and confusion, or malicious in the way of finding suffering funny. It was wicked and ancient, and it permeated the water around me as I thrashed to let go. What had I been thinking? I watched as a grin full of too-sharp teeth overtook her mouth and her eyes went black, as I took in what the scales tracing up and down her arms and her hungry gaze truly meant. In that moment, she ceased to be the beautiful woman I knew, and became the monster she'd been all along. She tugged my arm, pulling me deeper, and I pushed back, certain I'd die.

In the spirit of telling the truth, I have to say: I still could have loved that monstrous version of her, without a second thought. If only she weren't trying to eat me.

Rescue came in the form of a fishing net reeling me back to the surface. The storm had blown itself out, and a crowd gathered on the dock, watching eagerly for my return. I wasn't sure how they'd found me, and I wasn't sure how I'd survived. Neither were they, clearly -- when I started choking out great big gasps of saltwater, looking rather like a drowned rat, one of the men who'd pulled up the net jumped back swearing, looking like he'd seen a ghost.

At first, I wanted to go back. Of course I knew I'd been dying, that she wanted to eat me, but it takes more than five minutes to undo months of madness, and my devotion lingered at the forefront of my mind. Even though it would kill me, I belonged beneath the waves, held by my love.

Even though I escaped her, she'd left her touch on me: five scales growing on my arm where her fingers had grasped it.

I don't wear short sleeves anymore. Most people know my face, and I don't need them to see that concrete proof reminding them who I am, tangible evidence of my bout of madness on the solstice. I don't want to be known for the lowest part of my life, so when people try to talk about it, I lie and say I didn't jump, I was drunk, I was pushed. Everyone saw, of course, or knows the story secondhand: lying is futile. I find myself doing it anyway.

It's September now. The water and air are colder.

I try to avoid Harbor Street, and I look away every time I catch a glimpse of the sea. I don't want her to ever notice me again.

I fear that if she did, I wouldn't make it back to the surface.