Stop

Salt.

That’s all I can smell. I thought, surely, my body would have blocked the scent by now. After four months, day in and day out, should I not have acclimated? Should it not be as familiar to me as the smell of the boat, as my own scent?

But somehow I don’t notice those things. I am sure that the waterlogged sailboat smells like mildew, like wood rot, like deep saturation. I am sure that my skin smells stale, sour, acrid.

But then again, maybe it doesn’t.

Maybe everything smells like salt.

I look to the sky and close my eyes. Despite this, I know what the sky looks like right now, in this moment. It has been the same every day since they all left. If I opened my eyes now, I would see gray with no gradient, no variant. Just the gray of smoke, but there is no burning.

I would see the same cloud, unmoving, pinned to what I used to think of as a vast expanse but is now no more to me than a woven blanket, pinned by the corners and laid flat out in the sun to dry. If I looked closely at the cloud, I would marvel at how similar it looks to the muffins that he used to make me every morning for breakfast. They had pistachios. I thought he was a genius.

If I opened my eyes, I would see that cloud and I would wonder for a moment why it does not move.

And then I would remember that nothing moves.

I do open my eyes now, just to be sure. Yes, there it is. The muffin cloud. Right where I left it.

I walk to the edge of the boat. It does not heave with my step, it does not rock gently with the shifting of my weight. It might as well be docked in concrete.

In the early days I was more curious. I would walk to the edge and lean out, over the water. I would run from side to side, eleven long strides, seventeen short ones. I would stand on the bow and I would jump. I would run to the stern and I would scream.

But I am the only thing here that moves.

Leaning over the edge now is not about curiosity. I know what I will see. No, leaning over the edge is about decisions. I look into the still water. I wish there were at least the illusion of movement. I wish the sea had stilled during a soft ripple, or frozen in place during a storm, forever solidifying the choppy waters. Instead, the water is soft and level, translucent in its velvety blue sheathing.

My decision is the same today as it is every day:

Today, I will not look under the cover.

I walk to the cabin underneath the deck. I try not to spend much time down here — if they come for me, they will not see me here. But I need to close my eyes. I need to escape the predictability of Outside.

Inside is not expected to change. Inside does not need to move. Inside, movement is manual. The walls change colors if you paint them. The lights turn on when you ask them to. Inside is allowed predictability.

I pull the curtains closed , blocking the window on the small hatch to the deck. I do not need reminders that the sun does not set anymore.

I lay down on the bed, the mattress giving under my weight, and inhale. Please begs my subconscious. Musk, cotton, dust.

I am answered with salt.

I let my head fall to the left, my cheek pressed against the pillow. It compresses underneath my face.

I see it. My daily meditation. The last bit of proof that I was ever not alone here. His water glass, perched on the small shelf. His side of the bed.

I close my eyes and sleep.

My dreams are choppy, rough, violent in the way I wish the sea would behave. I see him, before. Our apartment is bright, golden-hued in a way I know existed but cannot fully picture anymore. He is dancing, pulling me by the arms, forcing a laugh out of me. We are swinging, falling, gazing.

We are frozen, trapped, staring.

We watch the boat nearest us. We see a silhouette of a person step off, break the surface. I will myself to hear static from the radio, a frantic call for help. But there is only silence. He squeezes my hand and turns his back on the other sailboat, only one hundred yards from us, but I can’t call out. There is nothing to carry my words. My breath hitches as the boat starts to sink, slowly, down. It slips through the surface as if in a sinkhole until it is gone, mast and all, beneath the velvet blue covering. Now it is just us.

And then it is just me. I watch the top of his head disappear through the blue. It happened so fast. I am paralyzed, my jaw hung as low as the dry, cracked limitations of my lips will let it fall. But, I worry, fear running through my spine like electricity that no longer exists — if I remain paralyzed, still, will it take me, too? I force out a sob for safety.

The top of his head. The blue water closing over top of it, sealing the curtain shut. That is the last movement I saw.

My eyes open, blinking. I stand, the mattress returns to its shape. That, I don’t understand. But what do I understand?

I begin my morning routine. Blink, stand, walk. Muffin cloud. I move to the side of the boat and lean over. Decide. Today is the same.

Today, I will not look under the cover.

Four years ago, there was a comet. The scientists had told us that the end was coming. They described a fanfare to the end of the world. They made predictions, projections. Some promised floods, fires, dwindling resources, warfare. Others promised an explosion, quick, final. They described the planet as if it were a candle, its fire snuffed out, a thin trail of smoke traveling up, up, up, proving that there was once a flame.

The comet missed us. Or it dissolved during travel. Or it was all a hoax. I don’t remember. I’m not sure that I ever knew. I realized one day, Hmm, that comet never hit us, did it. I wonder what happened with that?

But nobody promised this. I’m sure of it. No scientists came on the news and warned that the world would stop. Because it didn’t end, did it? It just stopped.

In the early days, back when there was curiosity, I cared about what was happening. I wondered. Is it like this everywhere? What about where there is no water? Are there still people out there? Might they be looking for me?

I had texted friends, before we left. (“We.” The pain is sharp when I think about we. I usually try not to.) People knew where I was going. They knew when to expect me back. Are they worried about me?

Or has their world stopped, too?

But the time for questions has ended. There is no room for curiosity any longer. Curiosity is the enemy of survival.

Is that what I’m doing? Surviving?

In the first week, there was still food. We were prepared when we started this adventure. (We.) In fact, the cupboard is still full. Because, when the sea stilled, it came clear that our bodies did not need food. We never got hungry, never thirsty.

Sleeping was a hobby, a pastime.

So is that what I’m doing here? Surviving? Or am I even still alive in a world that has stopped?

I shouldn’t ask questions like that.

Curiosity is the enemy of survival.

I return under the deck. I’m sure I could sleep more. I can always sleep more. Why is that?

I lay down on the bed, and the mattress sags under me. I let my face fall to the left on the pillow, and it relaxes beneath my cheek. I smile at the glass on his side of the bed. It hurts my lips.

I close my eyes.

My dreams don’t change, either.

I am awake, again. I inhale. Salt.

I begin my morning routine. Blink, stand, walk. I am on the deck, beneath the sun. I look up. Muffin cloud. I smile again and find pleasure in the crack that deepens, expressing a small drop of blood. Curious. I walk to the side of the boat and lean over. Decide.

I step off.

The curtain closes over the top of my head.