dirty sand

[Anselm de le Poer]

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-- Anselm fought off the urge to follow her--what was this, anyway? He was a free man, fiercely independent, and he couldn't recall a time he'd given two shits about whether or not somebody was no longer in his company. He just felt strangely drawn to the girl, and this alone was bizarre. She was remarkably pretty, probably old enough, and yet he felt no sexual attraction toward her--baffling. "Take care," he said finally, although by this point she was already some distance away. He wasn't sure if she'd heard him or not, but all of a sudden he wasn't inclined to wait around and see. Something about this wasn't right and for the first time in a long time, he was slightly uncomfortable in his own skin--or rather, in his own mind. Turning quickly, he strode back to the bay and dove underwater once it was deep enough. Every so often his golden head would rear above the surface as he took a breath, but before long at all he'd all but vanished into the waves. He would need to think about this more to figure it out, but unfortunately, his first instinct was to block out the strange feelings entirely and hope that they went away.

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