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The delicate on the deep

The delicate on the deep

by
Lucas Abbott

 

I can’t see the land anymore. It panics me. My paddleboard suddenly feels inadequate against the might of the ocean now that I can’t see the way back, but Celia doesn’t mind. She keeps paddling on, a few strokes ahead, remarkably composed on the choppy water.
She’s the only person I know who could convince me to come out this far. I find myself saying that a lot about her: ‘she’s the only person I know…’
She’s also the only person I know who types on a laptop using just her thumbs. She says she learnt to text first and prefers to do it that way.
The wind picks up, lifting drops from the surface and tickling us with the spray, then driving ripples like dominoes across the water. I follow them until they leave my eye line and it’s quiet again.

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