Pressure drop

15 Minute Write

The storm had been intense. They had been warned, before coming away to this bolt-hole on the South coast, but had not considered it might be as serious as they had been led to believe. Mark had often wondered in the past whether atmospheric pressure could change moods. Surely it seemed obvious that extreme low pressure or high pressure would have some effect upon the chemicals that ruled emotions? What he was trying to do was excuse himself that perhaps it wasn’t just his drunken state, for how he seemed unable to let go of each argument they threw at each other - were other forces at play? 

They had emotionally smashed into each other like the waves that crashed against the sea wall that evening, never knowing which jibe would hit hardest, just knowing they were trying as best they could to hurt each other, exchanging emotional punches. Along with the usual suspects of money, home, children, cleaning, and presence, they broke new ground. Who knew how much she cared about the way he dressed when around her parents and friends in comparison to his? And she certainly had no idea how irritating he found the way she always left her shoes at the bottom of the staircase. But it was the future, where they saw things so differently, that became the focal point. It was the storm that had been brewing in their relationship for years and tonight, perfectly timed with Storm Aaron, it broke.

He had slept on the sofa and rose early in a muddled state of mind, something was different. What was it this morning that made it so? Was it the lurking pain of the things said, the hangover, the pressure change, the calm after both storms? Mark walked to the cliff's edge, buffeted by the winds still making their presence known. Moisture, from mizzle and sea spray, on his face seemed a balm to the aches, self-inflicted. The steps down to the beach were wet and covered in pebbles thrown by the power of the waves to shore. Seaweed hung from the rust-blistered handrails like cobwebs from some strange sea spider. When he reached the crunch of the pebbles his calves and thighs stung as if he had been physically and mentally pummelled last night. Was he getting too old for arguments about the future when his body was already in this state? 

The seawall had several large granite-hewn steps leading onto the beach and he sat on the one at the top with his back to the wall and felt the sun cut through the wind - somehow there was shelter here as if the storm couldn’t manage to get in everywhere. He was alone. He tried to turn off the motor-mouth in his head playing over and over last night's conversations. He stretched his hands along the step feeling where pebbles and sand were filling in the pits caused by the power tools that had cut these immense stones. He imagined lining up each of these by size, realising that sand was merely, in reality, a tiny pebble, which made him chuckle. Maybe everything is just a matter of perspective? He scooped up various-sized pebbles and a grain of sand and stood to make his way back. A peace offering. An explanation of sorts.

In the cottage, she heard the door pull and his steps on the path. She rose from the bed and watched him walk down toward the steps that led to the sea. She was glad of the quiet. He had hurt her last night and she had said things that she felt she shouldn’t have, wouldn’t have, hadn’t, until then. She wasn’t even sure she could remember whether they were things she had said out loud or were merely things that had come out as she replayed the arguments in fragmented dream upon dream in her broken sleep. Whatever they had said, she was sure it was now up to him to apologise, to make amends, to come back with an explanation of what had happened, and of how they could make this right.

Photos: Porthleven, Cornwall. 2022. Fuji Instax

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