a house and a woman

There was once a house on a tiny island whose sole human inhabitant was a young woman. It was a small house made of coral and driftwood. The sea was only a few yards from its doorstep when the tide was out. Sometimes, when the house was submerged at high tide, it would come alive in a kaleidoscopic explosion of tentacles that swayed in rhythm with the currents. It was a sight more magnificent than anything most people saw in their lifetime.

The weather was mostly tempestuous around the island and the young woman mostly stayed in. On rare sunlit afternoons, she would emerge from her dwelling; her slender body covered in layers of velvety moss. She would go to the water’s edge and, with a piece of coral, begin to scrape the moss from her body. And slowly, the dull green would give way to skin white as sand. Then, with a toss of her sandy head, she would go about gathering driftwood.

On a particularly dismal afternoon, the woman stood by her little window, watching the sea being whipped into a mad froth by the wind. She spotted a ship braving the storm in the distance. Columns of water rose around the vessel and toppled onto it like crumbling masonry.

There might be company this evening, she thought. Perhaps a good sailor or two. Her heart gave a tiny flutter. She moved away from the window and opened the door. Water lapped at her feet while she stood on the doorstep. Soon, the island, the house, and herself would be under water. And within a tangle of iridescent limbs, she would wait for her guests to arrive.