Winter Solstice.

On the first day, it rained.

            We woke up to sky’s roar and the heavy weight of salt in the air. All the windows were open and damp patches appeared on the sandy carpet. Alison sat on the grey wicker couch and read Norwegian Wood for the fourth time, drinking cup after cup of black coffee. If I drank as much coffee as her I would vomit and die, but anyway, I guess she’s got a stomach of steel, as they say.

            I busied myself trying to fix the plumbing, out in the rain, which stung the eyes and bruised the dusty driveway. I pitched up a tarp, tying one end to the roof rack of the car and the other to the broken socket where an outside light used to be. I sat on my haunches over the hole in the ground and broke tree root after tree root in an attempt to clear the piping. Poor trees, thirsty and looking. It hadn’t rained in weeks and yet today the sky had opened and purged down on all us unsuspecting bastards.

The beach house in winter was a bleak little adventure that occurred more out of necessity than for enjoyment or the fulfilment of any escapist needs. Checking the power, checking we hadn’t been robbed, leaf blowing the driveway, clearing the gutters. That sort of thing. It had to be done. We arrived at night on Friday, coming from work with our bags packed and sitting in the car from that morning (which felt so long ago). The drive was quiet, we switched half way. When Alison took the wheel I counted street lights and hedges, then I counted other cars, then I counted cows. When we arrived our key didn’t work because Tim had changed the locks last year and we had never gotten the new key (because we forgot to ask) and we were both embarrassed and mad and didn’t talk while I hoisted Alison through the bathroom window, which never locked properly anyway so why Tim bothered to change the locks was beyond me. We went to bed swiftly with heavy feet and didn’t push the twin beds together like we usually did because we were tired and because I was afraid to ask lest I be rejected. In my own small bed my body warmth was insufficient to heat the blankets and I lay in a ball and tried to count my own heartbeat. In the morning it was raining.

On the second day, it drizzled, but was clear enough to leave the house.

            We went to the beach. We drove down the main street, past the pub and the florist and the gentrified bakery and the fish and chip shop, which had evidently closed for winter. Everything looked pretty lonely and sad and I wondered where the locals were. Maybe there were none; maybe the town was entirely occupied by holiday couples that fled in the colder months for fear of growing old in a place like this.

            At the beach we let the dog off his lead and he trotted along the shore, occasionally breaking into a gallop when his nose caught a smell, then slowing to a canter again to sniff at the brine that coated the hard sand. We walked the usual walk, which was long and fulfilling, and we didn’t talk, because Alison clearly didn’t want to.

            The tide was higher than usual and we had to climb the rocks, steadying ourselves against the cliff’s edge and occasionally holding hands when necessary. The dog clambered onwards, unphased and relentlessly energetic.

We reached the area that was usually full of little rock pools and colour and other people. The tide had covered everything that usually sparked our interest and so we stood, backs against the rocky face of the cliff and looked with our eyes at the sea. It was flat and foreboding and treated us with indifference. The dog was happy sniffing seaweed on the rocks, and every now and then turned his gaze skyward at a seagull.

            ‘Look, sharks,’ said Alison, pointing.

            ‘I think they’re dolphins, actually,’

            ‘Oh.’

            I felt unwarrantedly happy at this small communication. Then I felt lonely again.

At the house, we cooked pasta and sat by the fire. I let pine cones dry out on the hearth then added them to the building flames, enjoying the crackling sound and enjoying not thinking of anything much. Some parts of winter at the beach house were nice. Alison read and said little, and I thought about putting my hand on her knee, but then thought better of it. I didn’t know what was going on in her head.

            Later at night, I pushed the beds together and dragged in the old fan heater. The quilts smelt like mothballs and sand but were heavy and dry. Alison came in in her clothes and got undressed with her back to me. She smiled when she climbed under the covers and this little victory was enough to keep me satisfied. With the lights out, my sense of hearing sharpened and I listened to everything that was close to me – my heartbeat, hers, my breathing, hers, the heater, the dog at the foot of the bed whose breathing was inaudible but his presence was noted. And then the second circle of closeness – the wind against the house, the immediate trees, the flapping sound of the tarp that I’d forgotten to take down. And then everything else – unexplained and unidentifiable bush noises, the rustling and cooing and the talking of trees.

            ‘Let’s go home tomorrow,’ I said.

            ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

            I curved my body around hers in the dark, and our warmth spread out like an open sky. I listened to my heart pump blood in time with hers.