Last year my wife Janis and I were walking on the beach near our house. We've been married almost twenty years and still hold hands wherever we go, so my first awareness of the bottle was when she started racing ahead and dragging me across the sand.
"Hey Matt! Look at the size of that shell!" she said, simultaneously blocking my view of it as she ran ahead. "Oooh wait. Is that what I think it is?"
"Probably. Assuming you think it's a piece of trash."
Janis let go of my hand to drop to her knees, allowing her skirt to pool around her on the sand. "It's not! It's a treasure!"
"It's probably some homeless man's piss pot."
Anyone who has been married knows exactly what look she gave me. Sort of a 'I've known you long enough that I don't have to pretend you're funny anymore' look.
It really was a beautiful bottle though, despite the erosion and clinging barnacles countless years had stained its surface with. It seemed to be made of some type of ceramic, and the fat base was surrounded in intricate geometrical designs. A leering face was carved into the neck, and a moldy cork with a pungent smell was wedged in the top. Janis wasted no time trying to pry it open with her nails.
"It looks like something that might have been on an old ship," she said, grunting with the effort like an offended farm animal. "How can you not be excited by this?"
I shrugged, looking out to sea. "I like to save all my excitement for the big things. Like weekends and pizza night. Speaking of..."
But she had it opened now. She'd turned it over to shake the contents into her outstretched palm. I expected a rush of water and nothing else, but the thin rolled parchment which slipped out was immaculately preserved. Janis unrolled it and studied the page. The wonder in her face gave way to amusement, then incredulity, her brow continuing to furrow into a bitter anger.
"Well don't leave me hanging! What's it about?" I asked.
"I don't know. Ask your girlfriend." She shoved it against my chest and turned to stomp back toward our house without another word. Bewildered, I opened the letter and read:
Dear Matthew Davis,
I miss you. I need you. How much longer will you make me wait? If your love endures as mine has done, what keeps you away from me?
"Janis? Honey?" I called, unable to tear my eyes away from the note. The paper — the bottle — even the smooth archaic penmanship, all seeming ancient and untampered with. So what were the chances that it would be addressed to someone else with my name?
My wife was already gone though. She didn't talk to me until late that night when I finally got frustrated enough to snap at her. It was either a coincidence or a practical joke played on me, neither of which were my fault. She wasn't convinced, but at least she opened up about her fear that I was cheating on her. She thought that someone hid the note near my house where I would find it as a romantic gesture. Eventually she came around, but it was an uneasy peace at best.
And it only got harder from there. There was another bottle almost every morning, wedged in the sand at the high tide line as though it had washed up overnight. Sometimes my wife would find them, other times I would. I posted pictures online of a few of the bottles, and the closest match I was able to find were potions used by 17th century alchemists. That seemed like an important clue to me, but all my wife ever focused on were the notes.
The ocean ends, though we do not see it. The summer fades, though the sun seems unassailable in the sky. Only our love will never grow old. I will not give up on you Matt.
