Dead Men Don’t Scare

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Each morning he would sleep until he could not close his eyes again. Then he would roll out of bed, pull on the yellow swimming trunks, push the bedroom door open. Down across the soft hot sand he would walk, to the hard damp packed sand, until the surf was pulling at him, waking him up. He would swim past the line of breakers and float out there for a time on his back, his eyes squinting against the sun glare.

He knew that he was watched from the hotel because, each morning as he started to swim back in, he saw the white-coated waiter bringing his breakfast down to the cabana. Each morning he showered quickly in fresh cold water, rubbed himself glowing with a coarse towel. He breakfasted alone on the tiny private patio built in the corner of the L of the cabana, an opened book at his elbow from which he glanced up from time to time to watch the sea.

Every day was exactly the same and that was the way he wanted it, because coming back to life is a slow thing and a delicate one.

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