The cabin we rented is right on the beach, near enough to the surf that the breeze soaks our hanging towels with spray, but we are a world apart from the people playing in the waves, the men tossing a football, the children building castles.

A young couple, only their heads sticking out of the water, time their kisses with the movement of the sea.

A dog catches a ball while another scatters a clump of seagulls which gather further down the shore.

The tide continues to recede.

This vacation was my mother's idea. She knew something had gone wrong with my marriage and thought a week on the ocean would rekindle the romance, give Bill and me a chance to rediscover each other.

If we've learned anything at all by being here, it's that ships which pass in the night are no less significant to each other than those that travel together for twenty-five years.

Her name was Alice.

I'm wearing a bathing cap that itches my scalp because we're going to dinner soon and salt water does a number on my hair. At this point Bill probably wouldn't notice if I shaved my head bald but I still have my pride.

What would the waitress think if she saw me with wet curls, Bill with a glitter of mica in his brow? Would she picture us on a second honeymoon, wonder whether we'd spent the day in bed before cooling off with a quick dip and heading out for a bite to eat? "The oysters are wonderful this evening."

The waitress will be wearing a pressed white shirt, a short black skirt, and an apron containing several pockets. She'll have a nametag pinned to her and smile which ranges from friendly to forced. Bill will ignore her if he knows what's good for him.

Some call the ocean invigorating and praise the fresh sea air.

I smell death and taste sand between my teeth.

I'm not sure why I followed my mother's advice except that it ended the discussion without touching upon the details. No one but me knew all the details. No one but me ever can.

Bill sits motionless, staring at the sea as if daring it to disappear on him.

To my right I see two pilings held together by a loop of rusted chain. We are too far from the water for this to act as a mooring. What else can it be but a symbol, an artifact contrived to strike a point home as if the point needed striking?

The bench we sit on is pale green, the cabin behind us a faded gray, the day dark despite the sunny blue of the water and a sky dappled with clouds.

The sea sparkles. I squint and the light turns nearly blinding. I close my eyes completely.

Alice was a nothing. She was like a piece of driftwood cast up upon the shore, pale and bleached by its travels. This time, however, the shore she had landed on belonged to me.

Bill shifts slightly. His right knee must be acting up.

I don’t know how they met. The receipt in his pocket only told me where and I was waiting in the parking lot the next time Bill said he'd be late, confirming the relationship I had begun to suspect.

We have never spoken of her.

What does Bill believe? Does he think she ran out on him, that she found someone more interesting? I can tell his heart is broken by the way he moons around as if waiting for his ship to come in.

The only ship that should matter to him is sitting right here on the bench. I am his anchor. I am his sail.

Opening my eyes I try to determine the exact horizon but fail, the line appearing to rise and fall as the blues and grays ride out the storm that threatens to arrive but never does.

Alice was a mere girl. She was one of a million shells that litter the beach, fragile and worthless.

She didn't even try to defend herself. I told her who I was and then shot her twice. Even her blood ran thin.

I buried her body in some woods and tonight I'll throw the gun out into the ocean with all the strength I can muster. I wonder if it will skip.