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Her Siren Call Sings to Me
There is nothing I crave more.
I watch her from my perch by the cliffs. While other girls by the shore are practically wisps of themselves, she is sturdy in the way her muscles flow and flex under her skin. Her body is a fortress against all the hurt. Every movement is like a dance in slow motion, and I’m captivated by the mystery of her.
If this were an old legend, I would go to her and hold out a seashell as an offering. The gods of the sea would have laughed at such a paltry tribute, but her? I imagine she would hold the shell to her ear and smile as she heard the soft refrain of the ocean’s wordless language. Then maybe she might take the hand I offered before I led her to the embrace of the waves.
But there are rules too — the laws of beings with names that are no longer spoken of in the tongue of humans. I know these restrictions like I know the breath in and out of my body; there is no debating or avoiding them. If I step out of my sphere and interfere, forget tempting maids to the world beyond land. I would be just more foam to collect on the water.
My eyes trace her careful trajectory along the sand. Her head turns this way and that, as if she is searching for something or finding herself lost in a place she’s never been. But then I see it, the way her expression lights like the first hint of…
