The Missing

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The little motorboat slices through the water with the precision of a knife. The sun is low in the sky; it’s getting late on this evening at the end of summer. I’m sitting in the bow, closing my eyes to the water spraying up into my face, fighting against the nausea that churns inside my body and matches the movement of the boat. If only he would slow down a little, I think. And as if he has read my mind, that’s exactly what Alex does. I turn around to face him. He’s sitting in the stern with one hand on the tiller of the outboard motor. His whole being emanates masculinity and control. His shaved head, his clenched jaw, the furrow of concentration on his brow. Men aren’t usually described as beautiful, but that’s what Alex is. I’ve always thought so. And I still do.

Without warning, he shuts off the motor. The boat swerves in a small arc and then sinks back into the water. Smilla sways as she sits on the thwart between us. I lean forward and put my arms around her, holding on until she regains her balance. Instinctively she grabs hold of my hand with her little fingers, and a wave of warmth surges inside me. Now that the growl of the motor no longer fills the air, there is only silence. Smilla’s fine, flaxen hair curls at the nape of her neck, less than an inch from my face. I’m just about to lean forward and bury my nose in the soft strands when Alex reaches for the oars.

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