Rooms by the Sea, by Edward Hopper

I woke up when the sun was way up, and the morning fog had already cleared. White noise filled the empty rooms — the tide was out, and the sand was darkened by the receding waves. I got up, but you remained in bed, lying on your side, your back facing towards me. Smiling at the serenity outside the window and the stillness that lay in front of me, I poured myself a cup of steaming coffee. After a sip, I asked if you wanted one. You murmured, no.

You finally got up almost an hour later, and in the meantime I sat at the the kitchen table, reading something pleasant and nice. Once you were dressed, you took my hand and we went outside and walked on the water, feeling the wind and the ocean breeze. The soft oscillation of waves would occasionally reach our bare feet, tickling our toes with the cool water. And the sea — it was the purest blue, and the sky only a couple shades lighter, paling into a milky white as you gazed further upwards to the midday sun. The shore was far away now; and the expansiveness around us was not at all intimidating, but rather caressed us in a motherly way, rocking us to a warm, summer afternoon nap.

But there was no sleep, in a literal sense, that when we got back, and entered through the door into the dim interior, I still had an acute awareness that these walls — opaque and hard as they are, were still only temporary monuments to our insecurity. What is behind it? Perhaps, sometimes, it is you, brushing your hair, crying to your reflection in the mirror; just as I close my eyes from time to time, it is the same as when I close the door gently and walk away. And when there is a knock, which is rare, you could peek through first and see, the unconceivable ripples of things far away, and the silhouettes of what is near. Birds in the sky, fish in the sea, and the vague forms of companionship drifting beyond your reach.

I keep the blinds open, if only to let in some light. And I can stare outside forever while you sit opposite me and do some other things. Maybe you’re observing this wall, of which you imagine there being a picture frame, or a small table in front of it with a vase placed atop, or someone you once knew: standing there, leaning away, well-dressed and with an inviting look. I came from somewhere far away, and it has taken me a long time to get here, but I am glad to see you, he’ll say. And then you’ll run to him and embrace, leaving me to my little corner by the window, contemplating the whispering voices of the quiet sea.