Gordon, The Wind
He’d loved a woman once, in Halifax, long enough to learn she took her coffee black and slept with one foot outside the blanket. He couldn’t now recall if he’d told her he was leaving or simply left. The wind had come up fair that day; he remembered that much — he’d always remember the wind.
It isn’t in the tide to hold still, and it had never been in him either. He didn’t call it a mistake. But watching the light come up gold over water, his hands already reaching for the lines, Gordon felt the old ease catch on something, just for a moment, before it let him go.
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