Seaside Moors magritte suit

A pirate wife and a kingdom that faced the sea -- he felt pedestrian in comparison, a run of the mill detective swallowed by the eldritch embrace of some coastline town plagued by past tragedy, shuddering under the weight of some vast, unknown presence. 

Courtesan?, he thinks, and it dawns on him. In truth, he's impressed with her honesty and now her resourcefulness. This is someone who has worked their fingers to the bone just to survive and to hang on desperately to the last and widest rung of Maslow's triangle. He looks to the beach. Long and unbroken strands of kelp lie contorted over the wind-beaten sand like hair.

I admit I don't have much history with the ocean. I'm from the mountains, far up north. He pauses, lips parted. French-curve gusts comb through them and break apart over the water along the silver sand, skimming its turbulent surface. The only thing they have in common is the wind, I think. And that they've claimed more lives than any wolf ever has or will.

With this pique of romanticism, he slips into a thoughtful silence. The brackish air is drying out his lips.