dirty sand

[Anselm de le Poer]

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-- He shrugged and moved after her, swimming until his fingertips brushed the ground with each stroke. Now he stood and found the water here only came up to about his waist. He trudged through the light waves to the shore, where he fell to all fours and shook vigorously. It started with his head and continued along down his body like some sort of earthquake, except instead of fallen buildings there was only wet sand in his wake. The tremors stopped once they reached his tail, and now that he was sufficiently dry, he turned his attention back to the young girl. His head tilted curiously as he watched her--she had a dress. He was catapulted back to another time, namely the last time he'd been with a woman that had worn one of those. It had been a magical and surreal experience, and now that he was thinking about it, this was almost just as odd. Maybe the scenery was not, but the circumstances were. His gaze dropped to her busy hands, and he stared at them for some time. This was the same fretting he'd recognised in Bleach and Savina; what was troubling her? She offered an excuse that he certainly couldn't deny, although he wasn't sure that it was the full story. "You seem ... troubled?" he asked, puzzled. What was the matter? Had she seen a shark? His head turned back to the bay and he squinted into the water, trying to discern any shadows of the large predatory fish. Well, even if that was the issue, they were safe now.

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