The air was chilled, ominous of an imminent winter, and thus the ocean, salty and churning, would be as well; but he started out on his walk to it anyway. Chill and a swirl of tepid wind would not prevent him this time, which would not be like last time (he had turned back only moments after feeling the ground soften into sand, not advancing any farther than the middle of the nearly vacant shore). Then his plans had been stymied by a youthful couple stretched out on a blanket and a woman reclining on a plaid lawn-chair. He just couldn’t have anyone watching him. Somehow, if he knew that someone’s eyes were following him, all his once spotless and sterile philosophical rationalizations became sullied; spoiling and shriveling into nothing more than maudlin ravings. That is why the cold and the almost set sun worked in his favor; this time the short stretch of beach would be empty, and, with his reasons safely sealed in his head, he would at last finish his walk

As the short click and brief thud of his closing door sounded then quickly faded, he turned his body west to the not yet visible ocean, and made his first, slightly jerky strides towards it. Before easing into a walking position (hands in pockets, shoulders folded in, eyes at his feet) he shot an arcing glimpse across the street. An old shop owner (antiques) was, with both hands, fiddling with the front door of his store, probably locking up for the night.

His eyes, lingering fleetingly on the old man, then returned forward, pointed down obliquely at the leaf-strewn sidewalk moving steadily beneath him like a conveyor belt.

As the street and pavement now gradually stretched upward in a sloping gesture, a gray-striped tomcat darted out from under a nearby stoop. It halted in front of him, staring intensely at this stepping stranger, then smoothly shot across the way and bounded down a heavily shadowed alley. Just as with the old shop owner, his eyes followed the cat until it receded from his vision then eased back into their comfortable, straight-ahead position.

The gentle curve of the hill now reversed itself and languidly flowed downward, tapering into a turn along the ruffled beach. He cast his view up and settled it on the ragged, changing edge of the sea, swallowing twice, once hard, once only slightly.

Reaching the corner of the street, he took a sighing look to his left at a large-windowed restaurant perched just alongside the nearby shore. His slow-moving gaze was silently and unexpectedly met by a slim woman resting leisurely on the café porch. She had just put down the book she had been reading and was sliding back into the reality around her. Their respective four eyes linked only for an instant and then parted; he looked ahead to the stairs leading to the beach, and she leaned forward, elbows on table, and returned to her book.

He unenthusiastically skipped down the brief wooden staircase and plodded, hands still in pockets, across the wrinkled plane of sand which dipped slightly where the waves washed over it. He stopped, bringing his feet parallel to each other, just at the border between dry and wet shore, the latter dully glistening under the last rays of sunlight.

He hadn’t wanted to pause before he finished the walk (thinking it much too trite and melodramatic, almost like waiting for the orchestra to crescendo) but it felt natural to take a brief break, the sibilant waves dashing over each other at his toes.

Then, after several seconds, he noiselessly continued forward into the embrace of the frigid, foaming sea.

The first series of waves curled around and enveloped his shod feet, sending a shiver of cold up his legs into his torso. He trudged on, ponderously sloshing farther in. Soon the water stopped crashing and only smoothly undulated, each rise lifting him with it. Then the voluminous tide reached his chest and immediately tore the breath from his body. With the swells tingling at his armpits, he suddenly struggled to turn back to the shore, his toes grasping for ground and his arms flailing in stuttered circles.

Finally, after two brackish mouthfuls of the harsh liquid, he wrenched free from its slimy clench and staggered onto the sand. No, he thought, too cold; the water too cold and the walk too pleasant.

Gasping with his shivering lungs, shoes speckled with damp sand, fingers dripping tiny, clear droplets of seawater, he hurriedly marched back up the hill, past the café. The slim woman was still there. She probably looked for a long while at the strange spectacle he made, maybe even allowing a slight, bemused grin to stretch her lips.