The Coastal Road at Dawn

The yellow rotary telephone sits off the hook on the hall table. Outside, the road meets the ocean under a pale gray sky. I stand at the edge of the lawn, looking back at the back door. The room breathes without me. The scent of dried lavender hangs near the threshold. I turn away from the telephone, my hand moving slowly toward the gravel. The sound of the tide washes up against the retaining wall, a hollow sound. I hear the distinct clinking of the telephone's receiver against the base. I begin walking down the slope toward the water. The grass under my shoes is damp and cold.