The magnified moon, which had chased a reluctant, still radiant sun over its horizon only hours earlier, blanketed the tranquil sea. And with Autumn picking up the scent, their summer was about to set.
“I’m not sure this is as romantic as you think,” she chuckled as her shoulder gave his arm a familiar nudge. “How will I know what it says?”
“When it reaches you, of course. You are still going home tomorrow?”
“I have to, but I shall return,” she promised, punctuated with a pretend salute.
He fumbled with the bottle as they sought a safe harbour.
“You’re sure it’s a love letter?”
“Oh, I’m sure,” he said with just enough jest to hide the depth.
“And it has my address?” she further quizzed.
“It has the address you gave me,” he teased.
She continued in her daydream, sing-song way. “My very own message in a bottle… are you sure this isn’t littering?”
With a laugh and a lob, he sent the bottle afloat. They watched as it bobbed over the crests of the tiny waves and caught a small current to clear the rocks, destination and destiny unknown.
“Is it really mine,” she asked, “or is the Mediterranean beset with these bottles of yours, for every summer fling?”
“No one uses the word ‘beset’,” smiled the besotted boy as they embraced.
They believed. They were young. He waved from the dock as the ferry set sail, the start of her journey home.
Bottles wash up. People wash up. Love washes away.
The moon of the tranquil sea chased many suns, and season after season left the lovers further adrift. Now he tripped along the lonely shore, as was his gait these days. His downcast eyes, alerted by a diverted ray of light, searched the surf. Like a coded message, the sun reflected intermittently off the floating green glass as the tide gently delivered it to its sandy bed. The beached bottle before him, barnacled and mossed, lay unopened.
A declaration launched so tender, marooned at his feet; returned to sender.
Marty Brogan writes in Horsham, England.
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