The Coastline After Midnight

The air tastes of salt and black sand. I walk along the asphalt, the road dipping toward the tide line. It is the hour before the sky turns pale. My fingers unwrap the map, unfolded carefully. It is folded now into the shape of a swift. I press the wings against my chest. I know the time does not matter; I cannot be late. A car slows behind me. The passenger rolls the window down, and a voice calls out a name. The syllable leaves the speaker's mouth, vibrates the cool air, and then simply unravels, dissolving into the sound of distant breaking waves. I continue walking.