Excerpt | Blood Orange: Walter
Just off of Highway 1, gentle tides met the California coast. Walter sat and watched the waves come and go. The radio in his BMW crooned static and blues. His old fingers peeled a nearly ripe blood orange while an early March chill crept along the pavement and onto stretches of sand.
Walter was getting old and he could feel it in his bones. They were becoming brittle and hollow like a bird, and at any moment he felt as though they would all snap, like rusted chains that held shipwrecks on the bottom of the ocean. He was not afraid of the ocean though.
It held his gaze. It held his respect.
Those anxious for burning lungs passed him, digging their strong heels into the supple sands and Walter was jealous of their vigor. He would walk but since the passing of his wife, walking along a barren coast was a waste of his love. He would rather remember her and smile, than miss her and be sad.
Walter did miss her though. The coast told him that, with every wave and every passing cloud. This had been their place of refuge. Their haven when the thought of being overwhelmed was too overwhelming. A giant circle of nothing.
He started the engine and let it warm and hum under his feet before shifting it into gear. Walter liked to drive and the coastal highway stretched further than he had ever gone. Not since the war at least.
