The cigarette dangled between the lips of the boy and moved in unison as he hoicked the fishing line up and down. When the boy finally held the line steady, he pursed his lips and took a long drag releasing the smoke over the sea in front of him. The smoke billowed on the tendrils of the wind, rose towards the clouds and scattered across a mostly clear pale blue evening sky.
The boy had climbed over the rails of the concrete pier and stood precariously on the ledge between the wrong side of the rails and sea far below. The sea undulated with sickening, rolling waves that indicated a storm was stewing much further out, churning and heaving its underbelly. But the boy was not deterred. He teased the deep purple waters with his line and laughed a gritty, wild laugh as he grabbed hold of the cigarette between his teeth, held it tightly, and inhaled.
She was not cooperating this evening.
She had not released anything to the boy, though he persisted, relentlessly, tempting with more and more bait. He had been patient but began to feel the night air press coldly against the skin of his countenance. The boy puckered his lips until the minute lines that surrounded his lips were became deep and engrained making him seem much older and tougher than he was. The approaching night jettisoned an urgency in the boy, and he removed his right hand from the pole, took the filter end of cigarette between his thumb and fore finger, rolled it back and forth several times before he flicked it into the sea.
She crashed her waves hard into the base of the pier and devoured the cigarette tip.
The boy cast his line again, splitting the air with its whipping. The line landed further out, and he steadied himself against the rails bracing his feet on the concrete. For the briefest of moments, he thought he should be standing on the other side of the rails, the safe side, the side that all the other people fishing would stand on. But he dismissed the thought as quickly as it occurred, planting his feet more firmly on the ledge and held the pole securely, giving it small jerks – teasing her, coaxing her, taunting her.
She belligerently swirled around the line.
The boy leaned his back against the rails, bent his knees slightly, and bounced in readiness to heave the line upwards. The sky had darkened enough for it to be considered night and as he looked down the pier, he realised that the other people fishing had already packed up.
He was alone with her.
From far out at sea, the storm clouds began to roll across the waves with the wind stronger, the storm burgeoning and the sea seething, coughing up white foamy tips on the waves that tangled the line. The boy raised his right shoulder to his face, brushed his cheek against his shirt and blinked the sweat out of his eyes. The pole, usually an extension of the boy, seemed disjointed and his grip slipped along the pole and as he closed his fingers more tightly, he could swear he heard her whisper – relent.
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The Gold Shoe Writer 