(no subject)
Dangling his legs over the end of the pier, Tom slid his feet gently across the water’s surface. Dusk had just begun to force its way across the distant hills and was slowly, but purposefully creeping towards the bay. The boy sighed and the water hitting the wood heaved with the same anticipation. It was Friday afternoon, and upon hearing the sound of the school bell, he knew he didn’t have to wait much longer. Pausing for a moment, Tom caught a glimpse of his watch, eyeing thoughtfully the second hand, which ticked loudly forwards, but moved all too slowly.
The tiny silver fish swimming around his toes; sliding and dancing upon his skin, were lit up in a blaze of glitter with the fading light.
He laughed softly and in the same movement threw his hand up to his mouth to cover his giggles. The sea asked him if he was ticklish, in the exact same tone someone uses to ask a question, when they are already full aware of the answer.
Turning his head away from the bay, he arched his back like a cat and leaned back upon his hands. The road to his left stretched out further than he could see with his own eyes, twisting at intervals as it curved at the foot of the mountains. This is the road she’ll be coming on, he thought to himself, soon.
Leaping up from his spot on the pier, Thomas J. Wilson scrambled along its length and hoisted himself down to the banks of the bay, being careful not to catch his jeans on the cockleshells lining its edge.
Leaning down the side of the bank, he hung down with his legs entangled on the supports of the pier to ensure his stay on dry land. He grabbed wildly at the tickle fish and burst into fits of laughter as they skidded across his palms and wriggled from his grips as he brought his hands crashing up and down through the water.
Someone else’s hands snatched him square around the belly like one of his fish and pulled him away from the water. Squirming as they held fast he called out playfully for them to let him go, and they relented. One hand reached up to pinch his cheek mischievously whilst the other rested on his shoulder and turned him around to face its owner. The woman was bent at the knee to appear the same height as the child. Her black hair lay in curls reaching to her chin, and her eyes were mirror images of Tom’s, a brilliant blue matched only by the colour of the darkening sky. He reached out eagerly and immersed himself in the folds of her jacket, inhaling the smell of her perfume and her hair and her skin, and her, with glee.
She smiled at her son.
“Sorry I’m late kid,” her voice laden with smooth dulcet tones sent waves of warmth washing over the child. He liked to hear her voice, and he didn’t even mind she wasn’t on time. More time with the fish instead, he assured himself, and grabbing her by the hand, led her to the end of the pier to watch the sea.