It started on a Tuesday. Carried by an unconscious impulse, he found himself strolling down by the ocean, listening to the call of the tide in the early morning air. Something had drawn him here, to a place he never thought to visit - away from his morning routine of take-away coffee and block-by-block commute. The day was promising to be hot, the first true day of summer. The warm breeze searched the creases of his grey suit as he wandered along the boardwalk by the sand’s edge; air-conditioned office blocks would soon fend off its grasp. He stopped suddenly and faced the beach, uncertain of his own intention. A jogger dodged around him, caught in his own beat beat world of headphones and pumping strides.

The roar of the city sought to remind him of his place in all things, but for now, its claim was lost on him. Tentatively, he lifted a foot and rested it on the flaxen sand, the grains eagerly seeking the recesses of the polished leather. The other shoe soon followed, and his step became a walk, briefcase swinging in his right hand. A few surfers passed, keen to catch the best waves; the embers of a fire were the only remnants of a party lost to the forgotten hours and fuzzy memories of a bunch of youths. Some seagulls screeched as they circled or idled by empty trash cans, anticipating the day’s coming feast. The city's drone behind him faded, the waves lapping a sweet song as they crashed golden in the morning sun.

He stood at the edge for some time, the darkened reach of wet sand inches from his feet, each band of foam washing in and retreating. The heat was becoming stifling, and the glinting sea looked inviting. His mind was empty of the noise, of the structures that defined his waking thoughts. Why had he never noticed it before? He didn't even realise he was moving forward, the water inching up his feet and soaking into his socks. He stopped when it was half-way to his knees, each pull of the tide drawing the sodden legs of his suit pants against his calves. The wetness was soothing, and for once, he felt at ease.

After a time, a woman's voice spoke from his left side.

"Where are you going?"

He took a moment to respond, though he knew the answer definitively.

"Nowhere."

“That can’t be right; this world is ever-moving.”

He attempted to catch sight of the woman from out of the corner of his eye, but did not dare to turn and face her. He got the impression of white fabric and fair locks, floating on the breeze. Unspoken thoughts from the deep corners of his mind rose as he continued to gaze to sea.

"It's not as simple as that."

She gave a honey laugh. "Oh, it is. In the end, everything moves, or will be moved."

“But where to go, and how?”

There was no response. He waited where he stood, briefcase in one hand, seawater rising up his legs. The city sounds collided with the swell of the ocean, wave-upon-wave running along the sand. And at its edge, the motionless businessman stood, alone.

***
  

The 15th floor elevator doors opened onto the law practice of Wight, Creek & Harding, admitting Richard Morton, who made his way silently to his office. A few colleagues saluted as he passed, though none noticed the salt crystals ringing his trouser legs nor his sand-caked Oxfords. The familiar pace of working filled the corridors, the to-and-fro of assistants, the dial of important calls. Changing into one of the identical spare suits he kept in the closet, Richard sat at his desk and resumed the rhythm of the everyday. Meetings filled his busy mind; preparing cases and responding to clients.

By evening, the equilibrium of seven years’ routine had been restored. It was Tuesday, so Richard took the subway downtown for dinner. The seemingly considered choice of restaurant fit smoothly into the pattern of daily life. The waiter greeted him with dim recognition, explaining a menu Richard knew by rote. Practiced contemplation of the options yielded a familiar meal, eaten in silence. After dinner, he browsed shop-to-shop, tracing a path very much the same as that of Tuesdays past, idly inspecting items he was never going to buy. Evening coffee in hand, he set off at a measured pace for home.

The sidewalk stretched out before him infinitely, the city spread around him, rose above him. It engulfed him. He had never paid it much attention before - the predictive paths of pedestrians, the stop and turn of traffic. A cab poured laughing people onto the street, destined for some penthouse party; the evening city lit up, tourists basking in the urban sights and life. And here he was, a static feature of the landscape. But he had begun to sense it now – the hollow, the island of stagnation. That night, alone in his apartment, as he stared at the grey ceiling, Richard Morton heard the rush of waves, and dreamt of the ocean.

The following days passed without remark, commutes and clients, empty sleep and legal documents. One morning, as Richard was making for his breakfast place, he was held up by a delivery van exiting the adjoining alley. Standing there, his mind performed its usual loop of thoughts, interspersed with senses of the city's din and bustle. As the van pulled away, it revealed the graffiti on the building's side wall. A wash of airbrushed scribbles, chaotic street art dusted with the city's dirt. Richard's brain halted mid-pattern as his eyes settled on a figure painted amidst the mottled noise. A woman in a white summer dress, face obscured by tresses of straw hair blown by some unseen breeze. Richard nearly forgot to stop for his morning granola and cappuccino.

It started happening more often after that. Richard’s mind running in its familiar cycle when subconscious questions would bubble up, prying at the deep foundations of his psyche. He’d catch a glimpse of a white dress’ skirts trailing around a corner, or the shimmer of golden locks against the city’s drab.

He’d miss a beat; but in time, life’s sounds and schedule would restore it. Work went on, as it always had. He did his job – it was what he knew. And then, his consciousness aligned with the clack and sway of the homeward subway, he’d see her in the flash of passing trains.

Richard was on his way to a meeting, descending into the bass tone of the streets, the air a solid, dry heat. He mentally reviewed the client’s primary concerns as he walked, double-checking that he had every issue covered. He moved with the drift of pedestrians, deflecting around street-side vendors, gathering at crosswalks and then dispersing. He turned a corner, out of the sweep of the lunchtime crowd, and there she was. Her back was to him as she conversed with a homeless man. Fixated, Richard moved to cross the street. She started turning in his direction. An oncoming cab blared angrily and Richard did his best to lurch out of the way as it failed to slow.

She was gone. The homeless man was picking through the detritus in his three-wheeled shopping trolley, humming tunelessly to himself. Richard stood disordered.

“Spare some change, sir?”

Richard reached absent-mindedly into his wallet and proffered a note.

“Where did she go?”

At that, the man held a hand to shield from Richard’s charity.

"Skye? You're one of hers, huh?" He hocked a lump of phlegm onto the sidewalk.

"I'm sorry for your troubles."

He turned over the contents of his cart, carefully handing over an egg timer. Richard examined it – one bulb was broken, the top half missing, and when he turned it over, the sand clung to the sides of the other bulb, unmoving. Richard held still; the homeless man and his trolley receded, erratically.

***
  

Simon Harding had helped found Wight, Creek & Harding over fifteen years ago. An institution, in the fleeting life of the city. A cleaner found him at his desk; natural causes, so they said - though lifestyle had surely been a contributing factor. At the funeral, they all agreed that he was good at his job, and gone too soon. A scattering of black-clad figures stood at the graveside, the summer heat unbearable. The perfunctory eulogy was read by Dwight Creek – Harding had had no family. As it was drawing to an end, a familiar voice whispered sweetly in Richard’s ear.

“Everything moves; I can guarantee. He did, in the end.”

Richard stood silently and watched the coffin lowered into the earth.

A week passed. Offices and dining tables, computer screens and empty ceilings - and Skye, dancing barefoot down the sidewalk. It was Creek that offered him the promotion. The whole firm was being reorganized. A new era, a rise to greatness. His colleagues were elated. But Richard recognized now what it meant: years without contrast. Week upon endless week of routine stretching out, engulfing him. He was awake to it and knew there must be another way, somehow.

The other soon-to-be partners invited him for drinks to celebrate - some exclusive bar that manufactured the city’s most discerning tastes. It was nearing sunset when Richard left the office, the heat still overpowering as he stepped onto the street. He stood there for some time, sweat slowly soaking into his linen shirt. The hail of a cab would bring him to his associates. Instead, Richard turned left and started walking, purposefully.

At the boardwalk’s edge, he removed his shoes and socks, feeling the sun-soaked grains run between his toes. The sand flowed with every rise and fall of his feet. The beach was alive, but not overcrowded, people basking in reprieve from the city behind. Some had gathered in groups, drinking and laughing. A guitar was playing, serenading the sun’s descent. The sun hit the horizon and the sky ignited in an orange bloom. A rare smile spread across Richard’s face.

Near the shore, Richard paused for a moment, stripping down to his underwear. He folded his suit and laid it carefully on his shoes, protecting it from the searching sand. The waves lapped golden in the spreading twilight. He took his first determined step into the tide, curling his toes in the wet sand. The breeze still carried much of the day’s warmth, but the water was cool and welcoming. It clung to his bare calves, inching up his legs, rising past his knees as he kept moving. Every crest and fall washed away more of the stifling heat. Richard Morton strode forward and dived into the rolling waves.

Silhouetted against the blaze and purple heavens, a woman stood in the surf, white dress fluttering in the breeze, strands of flaxen hair dusted clear of her fair face. She waited and watched, until the man took his leap into the ocean. Her features burst into an effervescent smile and the sound of radiant laughter carried into the evening sky.