HAD WE NOT already been to the sea we could have dreamed of going there. But we had nothing to dream of, and we went to the sea one last time without knowing it was the last time. The waves were tall at the farthest dock, and at the first one a couple of cats had gathered to drink rainwater from a hole in the concrete where the parasol used to be; the parasol had vanished, it had been removed at some point and we hadn’t noticed. Olga was wearing a thick sweater and sat with her knees pulled to her chest, the hairs on her legs stood up, she was scratching at the ground with her nails. She didn’t swim. I got in once and then I sat next to her wrapped in my towel, my hair heavy and ice-cold against my back. But the sun still warmed my skin, it warmed the ground where we sat. We watched the ferry come and go. We heard the church bells and the beating of the waves; together they created a discordant rhythm.

We weren’t alone. A few people lay on the wooden deck, two older women had brought folding beach recliners and were eating something from a Tupperware container while conversing softly behind us.

Olga seemed sad and guarded. I had the sense that she was expecting me to say something to her, but I didn’t know what. The clouds chased across the white sky and the air felt humid when the sun disappeared behind the dome of the church. The weather isn’t great today, I said, but I’m sure it’ll be better tomorrow.