I was reading a comment that description stops the flow of a story. Now I think that it has its place and helps to set a mood. Anyway, thinking of a place, and a description, this creepy little story arose
Too many memories!
It had been three years since she was here... and it was exactly the same on the harbour wall, the same time of year, sun warm on the back of her neck, dancing brightly on the waves. But he wasn’t here today.
The quarrel... he was so controlling, and she closed her eyes, remembering.
“I can’t take it anymore, Wrenbury! You tell me what friends to have, where I may go, what to wear!”
“A husband is entitled to know who his wife is seeing. And where she is. And your tastes are not suitable for a wife of mine.”
“Your tastes are dowdy!”
“And yours are fast!”
She opened her eyes. She had tried choosing clothes just a little more daring than she might have worn had he not laid down the law so didactically. Now, she dressed quietly, though out of half-mourning.
Just like that morning; except that then he had pursued her there when she had left the celebrations everyone else was attending, to take some time alone, and there had been nobody on the harbour wall. Nobody but her, and her husband.
Her late husband.
The celebrations had been fortuitous; and her own celebrations no less, if much quieter, when they pulled his body out of the harbour, and told her there was no hope. So much commiseration for the young widow, expecting her first child, so much solicitation so that she would not lose her lord’s heir.
And her son was bonny, and would not grow up to be arrogant and controlling like his father; and she might now consider remarriage.
She would be more careful this time.
She could not expect to be lucky enough again, if she made a mistake, to be able to push her husband off the harbour wall to crash on the rocks revealed by low tide below.
