A good day

She loves the feel of water lapping against her bare feet. But only when the sun makes the little waves sparkle. It’s different to the other ways water can make your body feel. And it’s important to be specific when it comes to water, now that it’s everywhere.

Today, she’s found the perfect island. A flat, dry slab of concrete, several metres wide. From where she sits, she’s able to dangle her feet straight down and let the sun-warmed waves splash just her toes. Out here, she’s surrounded by similar islands. Large, blank stepping stones in the water.

Further in, the ocean floor isn’t so high, and more consistent peaks emerge, joining up to create huge pathways with hardly any breaks. But here, she knows if she dives down she’ll find layer on layer of concrete. Places people used to live, somehow, now fading into coral; sunken treasure chests. And her, right at the very top of history.

The other one - a friend - hops across to where she sits. He lands softly behind her, the gentle clang of his tool belt announcing his arrival. His trousers are rolled up and the pale, wet skin of his exposed ankles glitters too where the sun hits them. The water and him. He nudges her shoulder, pressing a gentle dimple in the fleshy part of her arm with his finger. She turns, and in his two outstretched palms: a gift.

She takes it, holds it up so she can see it in the light. It’s not a natural thing, but something from before. Half a forearm long, and about as thick as a wrist with a round opening at one end, curved and fully shut at the other. No point putting your hand in it, then. Plus, the soft fabric was already sodden. But still, it could be used for something small. With some changes, she could carry things about in it.

He tilts his head to her, shrugs a little: a push for her thoughts. She smiles. She tries to look him fully in the eye and puff out her chest and smile. His cheeks - already sun-darkened and dry - redden, but he smiles too.

He was good at treasure hunting. He saw the shape of things. Especially the old things that made no sense anymore. Like this, it felt like nothing at all, but it had lasted all this time anyway. It must’ve been important in some way, back then.

He hops away. She would see him again later. He was good at treasure hunting, but she was good at catching fish. And they should both take advantage of the quiet warm today.

The sun is hard to resist, but the shoals keep to the shadows. She’ll have to move to get a good catch. She pulls her hair loose, taking the cord she’d used to hold it back and wrapping it around his gift, fashioning a strap that could go over her shoulder and across her torso. She knows a good spot to try.

She squats down: a foot either side of a channel of water. She raises her hands in preparation, watching a school swim in large lazy curves beneath her. She tries to imagine each single fish moving as part of the whole. Alone they were messy, slippery things, but together they ripple gracefully. She plunges her hands down. Her fingers meet a swell of writhing bodies just as the shock of cold hits her wrists. She acts on instinct, closing her palms together before they get too numb. In that moment both hands and fish become painfully aware of their existence - and neither is that grateful.

But, her aim pays off. She feels the solid body of the fish tight against the thick pads beneath her thumbs. A quick blow of breath out. She bears down with her toes as the fish wriggles and her core wobbles. She remains upright and the fish becomes slower as it gulps down air. She places it on the ground and slams her fist onto its skull before it can flap away. With one final convulsion it stills. It’s over. She can breathe. Her shoulders soften, and she takes in her catch.

She doesn’t have names for the types of fish, but she recognises this one by the blue-grey tint of its skin and the fact it’s just a little smaller than her thigh. A good fit for her new sack. She stretches the soft opening wide, and pushes the body in so the head will end up nestled at the bottom. She thinks about catching another, but behind her the sun is beginning to set, and this is enough. They don’t need more.

They don’t have a set place to meet, but she knows if she heads towards the main stepping stone islands, he’ll be somewhere nearby. And sure enough, as she turns that way, she spots the shape of him in the distance, hopping towards her too.

She looks down as she presents her catch, still in the old world sack he gave her. But she’s smiling and he takes both her hands and this gift in his, and when she looks up he’s looking at her and smiling too. From his sack he pulls out strings of water greens. Tonight they’ll have a feast.

They find a flat roof to start the fire. First with dusty pieces he’d kept safe in his pockets. Then, adding larger debris. The flames splutter, fade, grow as they take in the moisture. Tossed bones hit the flames and little sparks meet the stars.

She leans against him, and it’s a question. He lifts his arm and pulls her closer. The exposed skin of his chest where his collar falls open is crusty warmth. She closes her eyes. Breathes him, the night: fire and charred fish. She could stay like this until the sun rises.

But the water will change before that.

He leads her - heavy-limbed and clumsy - to a place that’s sort of like home, for now. Higher up, so they can slip inside a window and make a bed beneath the slanted wooden boughs. They’ve salvaged soft things from the floors below. Let them harden dry in the sun. And now their bodies crack the casings; they crunch down into their dens. She puts his gift to one side, laying it out carefully next to them.

Tomorrow night might not feel as easy as today. But she could put that thought away. They were lucky to have any todays together at all. The sound of lapping water against creaking walls lulls her to sleep. And, as she closes her eyes, he takes her hand and curls it up against his chest. If the water creeps in overnight it won’t pull them apart again.