‘Mind that you do.’
I drank my tea, pocketed the keys and left him to rest.
Out at the edge of the promontory, where the rocks flattened and the boulders tumbled down to meet the ocean, there on the rough granite, I stood with my arms spread wide, feeling the wind pressing my dress to my thighs, billowing the fabric behind me. Cloud hung in long threads. A short distance from the shore, waves surged over barely submerged rocks, hitting the high spots, shooting columns of spume. I imagined the Christofferson figure, crouching down over his crayfish pots, reaching too far, falling in. And as if in unison with my imagination, the weather changed. It changed as I watched, the wind strengthening, low cloud scudding towards the shore as though from nowhere. In accord, the ocean heaved, sending
