She mumbles something incomprehensible, just stopping by reality before returning to her slumber. He strokes her hair a little. She is his mermaid, the enchanted woman lying next to her merman, who is sitting upright. He strokes the only hand exposed in the blanket, the only thing warm around him, besides her serene face. She is sleeping and doesn't respond. He smiles and gently gets up from their little bed inside this little boat. Last night a strange squall entered the estuary and kept them awake for a good hour after going to bed. He was asleep when it happened. And by the time it died down, he remembers holding her very tightly. The squall put him in a strange mood that didn't disappear in the sleep. He's still in that mood. He wants to write, all of a sudden. Something. But he doesn't want to disturb her. They are both tired, and at least the one who can sleep should be sleeping. He puts his old college flannel jacket on, then his sweatpants. He can see from the ice patterns on their windows that it was still below zero outside, but not too much below. He skulks to the kitchenette and puts his heating element in his mug and quietly pours some water in it. Every moment seems a long story. As he watches the line of water making a connection between his water bottle and the mug, he sees twinkling letters, sparkling in the blue light of dawn. In the same matter, the gentle, rhythmic sounds from outside, things bopping against the boat, against the mooring, but ever gently, he hears each sound and takes each in like words of a story, of a poem.
He sits on the stool while the heating element begins to heat up the water. And by the time the water is steaming, sparkles and sparkles of thoughts have transpired through his wide awake mind. He unplugs the heating element and rests it on the counter. After putting in a tea bag he takes the warm mug of unsweetened tea with him as he walks quietly, and without disturbing the little boat, without disturbing the mermaid asleep in her magical spell. He closes the door behind him and enters the little foyer, where the cold of the outside meets the semi-civilization of warmth inside. He puts on his boots and then takes a sip of hot tea. And another. And before the next sip is also swallowed, he continues to enjoy the poetry of the little sounds in this quiet morning.
He is never the first to wake up, let alone get up. He much rather enjoy sleeping, and then wake up to the sounds of the mermaid making breakfast. She complains quite often that he's too lazy and never makes her breakfast. He tries to win back her heart every morning with a kiss she almost never can resist or be charmed by. She is just too in love with him even after all these years to resist. All these years, the last three of which had been in this boat, this sailboat that takes them to a freedom few people really understand. While they have work on land, every evening they come back here, meet in the safety of the estuary, and the magic happens again. Obviously, they spend a lot of time on land too, but every night, when they are tired or just want to be together, they are here, sheltered from the world, sheltered from the outside. It's a wonder that such tiny enclosure doesn't drive them insane and turn them on each other. They had many fights before, but not since they started living in the boat. They haven't figured that out. There must be something in the boat, something about the sound around the boat.
He thinks about this as he takes another sip of the cooling tea in his palms. His nose is probably all red now, sitting out in the subfreezing temperature. The morning fog is still lingering but he can see a little bit of the colorful foliage on both sides of the river. It's his first time out in the boat at a little after dawn in the middle of autumn. The New England morning is sobering, but he isn't freezing, not in his body. He is enjoying every breath that enters his nostril, tightening the inner membranes and drawing a squeezing sensation. As the fog slowly clears, very slowly, he can start to see the neighboring boats. No one is sitting out, probably all tired from the rush of adrenaline from the squall last night.
His mind returns to that strange mood again. The mood that begs for a pen and paper. Or his laptop. Words want to burst out, and maybe that's why he hears and sees words in every little detail that's happening. When the world quiets down for you, you feel like on a stage and want to say something, if only to fill the silence. Silence has come to them many times, especially at night, when they are sitting, apart or together, and saying nothing. But she has always been there during those silent moments. He has always noticed her, felt her presence. But last night, as he held her tightly while the boat rocked, sometimes rocking violently, a thought came to his mind. They have been through much rougher storms and in the sea, outside the safety of the marina. But the thought never happened to him. Perhaps because in all those occasions, they were too busy making sure they wouldn't capsize. Never had such violence visited them while they were in a safe place. The howling wind, the explosive sound of hard objects crashing into one another, and the fierce rain that poured over them. All familiar except in the context of where they were.
He was holding her, and she was also holding him. She is not the kind of mermaid that needs a prince to rescue her. He taught her how to sail but she is now just as good as he is, and she has completed solo in sailing competitions as well as in the team with him. He held her as much for her protection as for asking it from her. But then, after a big crashing sound nearby, the thought came to his mind of losing her.
After that he almost didn't hear very much or sensed very much of the loud but really harmless noise outside. What would the world be like without her, he felt, not wondered. Then he was too tired from sleeplessness that he dozed off.
There were no dreams.
Now he is here, outside all alone, in this quiet waters, and the fog's slow clearing allows the colors of the New England autumn to reveal themselves like a growing fire. The sky is a faint blue, no clouds, apparently. He drinks his last sip of tea, very cold by now, and he lets his mind follow the path of the tea through his esophagus and into his stomach. A chill shakes him a little. He is now cold even as the sun slowly burns through the fog. The words come in less and less frequently. He stands up and slowly walks towards the little door. Before he opens it he looks around and sees all these words on each leaf of the chilly autumn morning, melting away in the strengthening sun, and he shudders once more before going inside to find his warmth.
