These were the words she said to me on our first date. We were at a dive restaurant in South Portland sitting at an outside table sipping beers. We’d known one another for nearly six hours by then and had broken off from our group of mutual friends who were bar hopping the evening away. Her eyes. That’s the first thing I noticed about her. They were gray, the way the sea was on days when the rollers would come in off the Atlantic and pound the rocks in unending fury. They caught me right away when we all met up at the first pub, and it wasn’t until she’d looked me fully in the face that I realized I was staring at her and seeing nothing else. Delphi Arans. Her name was as strangely exotic as she was. The way she moved, gliding rather than walking; how she would keep her head tilted to one side while listening; the way she began a smile, then cut it off mid way through as if worried someone might see; it was all too much for me. I got swept away as if in a tide that wouldn’t let go.
What do You think about And The Sea Called Her Name?
