The radio crackles as old love songs fight through the static of the fog and when I turn the dial up the waves around us crash louder until we can no longer hear the music or each other. It’s your first Pacific Ocean so I take a picture of your gasp when the icy saltwater hits your toes and it looks like your mouth is filled with fog. The space between us tightens as you shift closer to the skyline so you can feel the weight of the fog on your skin. I follow you with my breath. It disappears into the air. You step further into the tide and the sun shines through you. A lighthouse warning me of the shore.
Saba Keramati is a Chinese-Iranian writer from California. She holds an MFA from UC Davis. Her work appears or is forthcoming in AGNI, The Margins, Quarterly West, and elsewhere. You can follow her work at www.sabakeramati.com or on Twitter @sabzi_k. She lives in Michigan with her partner and two cats.