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Weekly Contest #377
Annabel's body returned to me with the tide, bloated and bleached like driftwood. Scented like brine and things kept far too long in the ocean. For seven nights, I had kept vigil on the shore outside our beach home after she fled into the storm. Her eyes were raw from weeping, face ruddy with an unspoken anger that etched those harsh, ugly lines over her pursed lips. I believed, truly, she would come back before the week bled out. That our argument was but a stumble in the dance of our devotion. She came back changed. Sea wrought and hollowe...
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