Breakwater

The docks were silent this early in the morning. The edge of the ocean lapped against the worn concrete of the breakwater and splashed around the aging wooden posts holding the docks themselves aloft out of the water. I was looking East. The sun wasn’t up above the horizon, but the refracted gleam bouncing its way through the layers of the atmosphere were enough to softly illuminate the scene. The shimmering liquid below me looked as much like molten metal as it did water.

How strange would it be if, overnight, the ocean was filled with mercury. Would anything survive? I can’t imagine that liquid metal could be oxygenated the same way that water can. The smells associated with my imaginative leap deterred me from pursuing the ideas further. I pulled out a cigarette. The smell of parties, weekends on the road, waiting, talking, sunshine, and memories innumerable cleared my head immediately.

My hands were cold, and the heat I was drawing from the tiny ember wasn’t enough to warm me. I had been waiting for Martin for close on twenty minutes. I had been sure he would show up by the time I walked down from my apartment, but there had been no sign of him. I looked down at the stratified shellac of grime on the ancient cobblestones.

“Boo!”

“Shit!”

Martin was standing right in front of me, but I was stepping back, into empty space, then falling, my arms swimming through the air and finding no purchase, the smile on his face turning into horror, then the horizon as I flipped backwards end over end, the water, then the rocks as I plummeted down. I hit with a crack, lots of things breaking. The water was still gently lapping at me by the time Martin scrambled down and across; the silvery mercury tinted with red, water meeting water.