The Fisherman's Daughter.

Chapter 6

I awake to the pitter-pattering sounds of rain streaming down my bedroom window. It's a dark, gray morning and I huddle further into my blankets, not wanting to expose my warm body to the cold air. I reach my foot to the side of the bed where Layne was lying last night. I know he isn't there but I am hopeful that some of his warmth has lingered, but it's cold to the touch. There is no sign that he had been with me last night, not even a light indentation in the pillow he slept on. I bring the pillow to my face and breathe in deeply. I can smell him faintly.

I know he left only hours after crawling into bed with me. I felt his body begin to grow restless then felt his weight lift from the mattress. I watched him dress quickly and silently under the glow of the yellow street lamp illuminating my bedroom. The warm yellow glow faded to an eerie green as he dressed. And the light casted shadows on his angular features and danced on the walls. 

I pretended to sleep so he didn't have to make up an excuse for why he was leaving. I knew why.

I had heard the rumors; the whispered talk and quiet confessions. Layne has always had a darkness and it seems that this darkness had made him susceptible to the promises of solace offered by an other-worldly possession. But these promises didn't come without releasing the claws of an obsession that called him to dark, turbulent depths.

Tears welled in my eyes as I watched him dress because I knew at that moment that I had lost him again. And this time, I lost him to the calls of a dark sea that rages within him.

As I lie in bed remembering how he kissed me on the forehead before leaving this morning, I realize that Layne is simply uncatchable. He slips from my line every time I cast out to him, no matter how hard I beg him to bite.

I climb out of my bed, feeling broken, distraught, and hopeless.

I enter my living room and find his flannel still draped across the couch. I smile slightly as I rub the soft fabric between my fingers, at least now I know that he was really here, that he wasn't just a figment of my imagination last night. I shrug on his flannel and roll the sleeves to my wrists.

I make a pot of coffee and sit at my tiny kitchen table watching the rain. I raise the cup to my mouth and as I look down at the cup's contents I notice that a piece of paper is folded into the breast pocket of Layne's flannel.

I pull out the paper and unfold it. His handwriting is scrawled across the note:

Ana,

Meet me for dinner tonight. 8pm at our spot. Keep the shirt-

Love, Layne

He had drawn a little heart next to his name. I instinctually rub my thumb across the ink, and trace his handwriting. I place the piece of paper next to my coffee and watch as the paper slowly re-folds along its original edge.

The spot he is referring to is a tiny, dark jazz bar in Ballard. I smile to myself at the thought of him considering it "ours." We went to that tavern the night we had sex in his car.

After he pulled up his pants and helped me rearrange my dress, he had held me against his chest as Billie Holiday's "Solitude" played over the radio. I told him that I loved her. He asked me if I liked jazz and said there was a little jazz bar just down the street from Erik's house where we were parked.

We walked to the bar and it was the only place open at 12am on the street. We sat in a dark booth in the back and Layne couldn't keep his hands off me. That night was filled with hope and excitement at the prospect of a future together, that it was our time. But I know how that story ends. It ends with him not calling and four years passing.