By Nida Sajid
Listless at the lip of the sea, we wait.
A million menisci glide past us, I admire their iridescent gait.
Grave, he flicks through a Guardian long read
on invasive species. The War on Japanese Knotweed.
The ferry arrives, cerulean stripes
hugging the hull. Tapping his Garmin, he gripes.
Wizened retirees lug grumbling trollies across a concrete tongue.
Irked, he strides ahead. I trail behind, stung.
We queue at the gate, scalps singed by the sun.
An American family encircles us. Vacation. Froth. Fun.
Quick flash of QR codes before we board. Bit by bit, the seafront shrinks to a wisp.
Buonasera! The tannoy has a lisp.
Sinking in an upholstered seat, he scrolls.
I gaze out the window, grazing each wave with imagined strokes.
Suddenly, the weather turns—high winds and heavy
seas. I clench my stomach, queasy.
He notices—pockets his phone, finds my
eyes, contrite. I grasp his hand as we ply
a well-worn path through a lover’s spate, distil
words to the gentlest of gestures until
the cabin ripples with love. The sickness
dissolves just as the ferry eases into the harbour’s arms. A stillness—
for now. Tugging at frayed backpacks, we disembark. The sky breaks,
wayward currents lingering in our wake.