Naiad, Henri Fantin-Latour, c.1896. (I couldn’t find a suitable Nereid).

The fog, a breath of thick hovering sea, sighed inwardly at the sight of her standing at the edge of the pier, a damp earthbound cloud, having swum against a strong tide under clear moonlight. Her eyes were hooded with impenetrable utter darkness, her body outlined and exposed in shadow and light.

They had slept dreamlessly one inside the other, but – determined to live before her brightness and beauty transformed into a cadaverous shell – she had escaped into the night, into the sea.

Shaking shells from her hair and laughing too much thunder, she sang freedom to silver fishes and darting seahorses.

The rosy fingers of dawn awoke him on the ship, alone. Though he had oft dreamt of a sudden maelstrom, only now did he knew that this augury had portended the storm of her departure.

This entry is part of my journal, published January 14, 2013, in San Francisco.