we are slaves to the sirens of the salty sea
She feels a strange sensation at the idea of being able to summon him again—at being able to find him so easily by just thinking of him. She doesn’t tell him that she will be always thinking of him. That she will return to the islands and the beaches of Ivar and be thinking of him still. That she will shield the thoughts of the man made of shadows as she lives amongst the kelpie—as she bears him sons and daughters.
It feels impossible to think he would always come.
That he would be a constant companion.
(Would anyone else see him? Or would he exist only in her thoughts?)
These things plague her, confuse her, and she shifts suddenly, redistributing her weight as if to try and get more comfortable. “Okay,” is all she says instead, flicking her silvery tail against her scaled, sleek haunches. They feel dry, her body thirsting for the water—more specifically the salt water of the sea.
She wants to stay, she knows.
Wants to be here with him and his sharp smile, but even that cannot override the primal ned to return to the ocean. She grows irritable, uncomfortable, and she does not hide it well from her pretty face.
“I will think of you then.”
She realizes she does not have a name to call him by and chooses to not ask.
She prefers him like this—in the shadows, in her thoughts. Hers and just hers.
“Think of me too,” she says with a silvery laugh, with a flash of white teeth.
And then she turns from him, returning to the water, walking into the depths and leaving.
