I can sense a rime of salt caked into the upper rim of my ears. After tears. I shouldn’t cry on my back but I like the way it feels, a milder misery than the wracking hunch or mirror stare manoeuvre. The tears run of course, down my cheeks and into the auricles, crusting, sometimes for days, as though the sandman had missed his mark, wept and moved on. I do feel tired though, which is different from sleepy and accrues an internal kind of crust. I cup my hands around my ears and listen to the ocean die.
Colt asks if I’ve heard anything and I shrug. I don’t know what to say, I hear about her more than I hear from her. I say nothing and finish my beer. When the girl comes by to collect our glasses she leans over the table and I can see down her top. There’s a small silver razor hanging menacingly in the promise of her cleavage. Her hair smells like sea salt. Colt raises two fingers in the air like he’s giving the peace sign and she nods silently. I tell him that she’ll be back when she’s ready.