Her flip-flops slapped against the soles of her pale feet, more accustomed to sensible flats than five dollar thong sandals. She walked along the crowded sidewalk past street vendors and “no cursing” signs, past hotel fountains and souvenir shops, past construction workers and over-caffeinated teenagers. At every crossroads she gazed through the gap in the buildings to the infinite ocean, waves crashing as mothers told their kids to stay close to shore.
The small marina was mostly deserted except for Mr. Diaz; the man who would take her one mile out to sea. He was a quiet old man, not that she could hear him over the roaring engine as they sped toward the empty blue horizon. They arrived. He cut the engine. She opened her bag.
It was a simple urn, but he wouldn’t have wanted anything fancy anyway. She smiled sadly, and remembered their time together. Four years wasn’t enough to know such a man. He was gentle. He was smart. He was strong. He was mine.
Tears rolled gracefully from her toffee eyes, over her trembling cheek, and fell into the sea. She opened the urn and poured his ashes into the crushing depths of the uncaring ocean.
He was gone.