Saul watched it materialize out of the semi-dark that was a St. Libran night, illuminated first by the pale ringlight, then the dawn’s horizon haze. He was sitting in a chair on the kitchen patio, dressed in a thick white cricket sweater he’d owned for eight years, a pair of long, baggy, cyan-green shorts with sagging side pockets, and ancient trainers. His eyes were red-rimmed and he was frightened someone would see them and ask why he’d been crying. It would be another couple of hours before his family roused themselves, and Emily would realize he hadn’t been to bed that night. Two hours to pull himself together, to get his rampaging emotions under control. To push down the bitterness and hatred at what fate had delivered to him. The languid St. Libra waves made a constant swishing noise that rolled over the empty sands as the small tide started to turn, bringing the waters back. He thought about it as he stared out at the gray water with its white crests.
