This story is part 5 of 5 of The Man From Kiama.
There is a romance to allowing oneself to be pulled along by the perceived energies of the universe but it is akin to being enslaved by a master who is not interested in or capable of being in control. Hers was a hopeless surrender.
The days got shorter and then longer again but little else changed. He passed the weeks with study and writing and wine but spared a moment here and there to think of her and look off in the direction she had left.
She would ring him every so often to say hello but the tenor of her being had changed. Her tempo was no longer in step with his own. Their dance was becoming clumsy and forced.
On a warm day in February he wandered toward the lighthouse and watched the mobs of tourists come in waves not unlike those landing on the nearby beach. He had always been happy here but Kiama felt empty without her.
He meandered toward his apartment and past the cafe where she had worked. Past the book store where she had bought him a Joyce. Past the park where they would lie and he would struggle to get through that book for her sake alone.
He rounded the corner to his street and noticed immediately that the hammock on his porch was swinging. The needle of his heart skipped a groove and began to play an old but familiar tune as he saw the sun reflecting off long and unmistakably auburn hair. There was a suitcase on the landing.
He was home.