James comes walking out of the ocean and combs his long red hair back. He puts a finger along his nose and blows. From where I’m kneeling, finishing the seashell bra of a sand mermaid, I see a slender, violet fish wriggle from his nostril. “James,” he says, extending a slightly webbed hand. “Katherine,” I say and curtsy. He leads me up onto the boardwalk. He’s handsome and chivalrous. He allows me to pay for things: his wallet is full of seashells. His English is good, although he gurgles up salt water on long i’s. We eat snow cones under a sun umbrella. We lean close and whisper. He sucks the blue raspberry off the tip of my finger—I giggle, say, “James!” He says I taste like umibudo—some kind of berry from the waters of Japan. He eats his Dreamsicle cone fast and gets an ice cream headache. I tell him lick the roof of your mouth. He says, “That hurt,” like he’s taking notes. I give him a kiss, say “There, there.” He tastes like orange, vanilla, and brine. 

James comes walking out of the ocean and shakes off like a dog. A family flees in terror of the man rising, foot by foot, like a periscope. This time I’m ready, wearing pink lipstick and pearls. Since it’s been a year, I’m calling this his birthday. He is a little taller. He carries me, cradled in his arms, to Giovanni’s, where I made reservations. “This porchetta,” he says, “tastes nothing like sea pig.” We sneak to the restroom to kiss with lots of tongue. And to splash water on his gills. I ask where he wants to go for dessert. He tells me I’m sweet enough. It’s a clean bathroom with hand towels and mints; I say okay to doing other things. Afterwards, I ask how long he’s staying for. He gives a Mona Lisa smile, then disappears down the drain. 

James doesn’t come walking out of the ocean. I stand with my bouquet of coral. It’s been the longest year, lingering in fish markets, running fingers along octopus and cod, missing his skin and smell. It gets late. I shrug at the mariachi band I hired, tell them they can go. The biplane flies over the beach again, trailing its banner, “James, will you marry me?” The tide’s coming in. It ruins my good shoes. I walk back toward the Holiday Inn, hear: “Katherine—wait!” and turn to see James come running out of the ocean. He scoops me up. We spin and spin and spin, ankle deep in the water. I say, “I thought I’d lost you.” He kisses my cheek for a long time with a sucking pop. I giggle. He whispers, “I’ve missed this,” and nibbles my ear. We lock eyes. He gives me a studious look and says, “You’re delicious.” I start to laugh, but he bends, then throws me over his shoulder, begins walking me into the ocean. I scream and scream and scream.