Free Envious Moon by Thomas Christopher Greene

her heart against mine.
    I woke once during the night. It was not quite dawn and the sky had turned a robin’s-egg blue. I relieved myself against the cliff and for a moment I listened to the shrill cries of the morning gulls diving at the water. I returned to my bedroll and this time I slept without dreams. When I opened my eyes the sun had risen and it was warm. I sat up and shook my head and there, some ten feet from me, was the girl. She sat on a driftwood log with long rubbery pieces of brown kelp at her feet.
    I looked over at her. Was I still dreaming? Was she real? She certainly looked real. She wore a white T-shirt and faded jeans and had leather sandals on her feet. Her hair was reddish brown. And, as I had hoped, it was her eyes that brought together the promise of her face. They were green, as greenas the phosphorescence that floated under the ocean at night. She was slender and lovely and I had never been happier to see someone in my whole life.
    She said, “This is private land, you know.”
    â€œI didn’t know,” I said.
    â€œAre you homeless?”
    â€œNo,” I said. She picked up a stick and twirled it in her hand. I watched it spin. She wasn’t looking at me.
    â€œHow old are you?” she said.
    â€œSeventeen.”
    â€œWhy are you sleeping on the beach?”
    â€œI missed my boat,” I said.
    â€œYour boat?”
    â€œThe Lorrie Anne. It’s a longliner.”
    â€œA longliner?”
    â€œA fishing boat,” I said. “Swordfish.”
    She looked out toward the ocean, as if maybe she could see the boat I was talking about. “How do you miss a boat?”
    I shrugged. “They thought I was crewing with someone else. They left me on the island.”
    â€œHow could they just leave you? I mean, wouldn’t they notice you were missing?”
    â€œI work for a couple of different captains,” I said. “If I don’t show up, they figure I’m with the other one. It happens more than you might think.”
    She kept twirling on the stick with her narrow fingers and I saw that she was digesting my story. “You really a fisherman?” she asked.
    â€œMy whole life,” I said.
    She stood then. “I don’t care if you stay here. But others will. There’s been break-ins. You could get in trouble.”
    I nodded and she turned to leave. She started to walk away from me, down the beach. “Wait,” I called, and she stopped. The sun was behind her now and in its morning light she was perfect. “What’s your name?” I said, though of course I already knew.
    â€œHannah.”
    â€œHannah,” I repeated, finally getting to say it out loud. “I’m Anthony.”
    She smiled at me and gave me a small wave. I watched her walk until she followed the curve of the coastline out of sight.
    Â 
    A bout a year after I came here, I got a letter. It is written on yellow legal paper. It’s five pages long. A woman’s handwriting, a beautifully flowing script. The kind they don’t bother to teach anymore. Over the years the paper has gotten beat up a little bit from being folded and unfolded so many times. It is creased and the edges on a few of the pages are frayed. When I first got it, I read it all the time. I carried it in my pocket wherever I went. Now I read it less frequently, and never all at once. I like to read it in small pieces. I’m not sure why that it is. Maybe it’s just part of getting older. That I prefer to see her in fragments so that I can put her together in my own mind and on my own time. An unadulterated view. In this way, the letter becomes almost an aid. A tool. Something that jump-starts my memory.
    It begins:
    She was incandescent. Is that the word I am looking for? She glowed. From the moment she came into the world. She glowed. At birth her eyes were blue and she had a little cherub of a face. Big wide eyes. Button nose. Rosebud mouth.