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The stranger is back again this morning. It's early. The sun has barely crept past the horizon.
It's not even tourist season — won't be for at least another week. Trinity's been alone in her bay all year, waiting for the people, noisy splashing people, to come back.
The stranger isn't from here, but she doesn't feel like a tourist either.
Trinity is fascinated by how she swims. She cuts through the water smoothly, but not gracefully. She moves with practiced efficiency and quickly, so quickly. But also, to Trinity's eye, joylessly.
Every morning she swims exactly the same: out to the buoy and back, then she's on the shore again, wrapping a towel around herself, brushing the sand off her feet and slipping them into sandals, walking away.
(Trinity knows these words — towel, sandals, and more — from years of watching and listening. As far as she can tell, people who visit the bay have pretty limited vocabularies.)
She likes watching this stranger because she seems so focused there's no way she'd ever notice Trinity watching.
So she keeps watching.
—
The next morning, the stranger appears like usual. She walks into the water, swims, head above water, to the buoy, then stops, gripping the rusty metal thing, looking around.
This is different. Trinity can't tell if it's just different or if something is wrong.
The stranger looks around, her hair is long, wet ropes that cling to her neck and back.
"Hello?" She calls out. "Are you out here?"
Trinity shrinks back, keeps only her eyes above the surface. It's impossible that the stranger could mean her. It's impossible that she could know that Trinity's been watching.
"I know you've been watching me," the stranger shouts. But she's still pointing her voice in the wrong direction, away from where Trinity is watching.
Trinity considers this. She's never talked to humans while they were still alive. But humans have never called out to her before.
She ducks her head underwater and swims toward the buoy. Below surface, the stranger's legs are churning in the water, even as she holds on to the buoy. She seems harmless enough.
Trinity figures that, if something goes wrong, she could always drown her.
She surfaces a little too close to the stranger's face and she gasps and splashes.
Trinity doesn't apologize, just backs off a little, gives her space to stop crashing around so much.
"How did you know?" Trinity says, once the stranger has calmed down.
"Well," the stranger replies, eyes watchful and a little incredulous. "You weren't exactly subtle."
—
"You almost look human," Victoria says. Trinity knows now that the stranger's name is Victoria. Victoria doesn't know Trinity's name. She might not even know that Trinity has a name.
Trinity turns the remark over in her mind. She doesn't know what she looks like. Or, rather, she knows what she looks like in pieces. She knows that her skin is pale. She knows that it's hard to spy her if you're at the bottom of the ocean looking up towards surface, or if you're a gull in the air looking down. She knows that her teeth are tough and sharp. She knows that her fingers are clever and long.
She knows that she doesn't look much like Victoria.
For one, Victoria doesn't have a tail. Victoria's looking at it now like she wants to touch it.
"Oh," Trinity says, following her gaze. "Outboard motor." She flicks her tail out of view. The scars are ugly, healed ugly, and she doesn't want Victoria to see them. Doesn't want her to know that it's Trinity's own fault that they exist in the first place, no accident at all.
Her fault, always her fault, for wanting to get close to people.
Her fault, always her fault, for forgetting that people can be dangerous.
"Does it still hurt?" Victoria's eyes are big and wet, brimming with water.
It does.
"No," Trinity tells her.
Victoria looks like she has more questions, but Trinity can't bear to answer any more. She swims away, away, too far and too fast for Victoria to follow.
—
But Victoria is back the next day as if Trinity didn't leave her. She swims out to the buoy and waits for Trinity to surface.
"You came back."
"I never left," Trinity says, shrugs and makes tiny little ripples in the water. "Not really. I never leave."
"Because this is your home." Victoria says. It's not a question. Then: "Are you alone out here?"
"No," Trinity says quickly, too quickly maybe. "I have friends."
"You have friends?" Victoria says, and Trinity hates how she sounds, even if she can't place why.
"Let me show you," Trinity says. She grabs Victoria by the wrist and drags her below surface.
("W—" Victoria says before the water closes over her head. Trinity realizes later that Victoria can't speak underwater. She realizes later that the word might have been wait.)
Down down down she pulls Victoria to show her strange coral laced with bones. Victoria's eyes are wide and small bubbles stream silvery from her nose. Trinity shows her sharp, sharp teeth in what she thinks is a human smile to show her that the bones are her friends, that Trinity keeps them safe.
Victoria looks frantic. She pulls against Trinity's grip. Trinity lets her go, but she doesn't want Victoria to go away. Not like how she went away yesterday. It's not fair if Victoria goes away.
She watches Victoria claw her way back toward surface, then swims smoothly up after her.
When she surfaces, she sees that Victoria is gasping, trying to catch her breath.
"Were those bodies?" Victoria's words are a little frenzied between gasping inhales.
"They're alone without me," Trinity says, unsure exactly what Victoria wants her to say.
"Did — did you, like, kill them?"
"Oh," Trinity says. "No. They died all alone. But I'm here so they're not alone anymore." She feels like she's repeating herself.
"But you're the only one keeping them from being alone," Victoria says. Yes, yes! Trinity thinks, she's understanding now! Trinity isn't a killer! Trinity is good!
"So you are alone," Victoria finishes.
Trinity sighs. "No," she says, ready to explain again, "I have fr—"
"Your friends are bones on the bottom of the ocean."
"You're not bones."
Victoria looks startled.
"I'm not—" she hesitates, "I can't stay here. My family just has a cottage. A timeshare."
Trinity doesn't know most of those words. She considers that, maybe, she should drown Victoria after all, and make her stay.
"My family's leaving tomorrow."
This she does understand.
"You don't enjoy swimming," Trinity deflects.
"What?"
"You swim every morning," she explains, "But you don't love it."
Victoria presses her lips together, looks away.
"My parents always thought it was important that I be proficient," she says, and her voice sounds far away. "So I could swim alone on vacations. So they wouldn't have to worry about me. Sometimes, though, it would be nice if someone worried about me a little, you know?"
Trinity didn't know. It seemed like a strictly human concern.
But still, she says: "I could worry about you."
Victoria laughs and it's a bitter sound, like ocean salt, like living. "Sure," she says, in a voice that Trinity can't translate. "You can worry about me."
"I'm worried," Trinity tries her best to sound human, "Because you never just float."
This time Victoria's laugh is different, surprised, maybe. Trinity still isn't sure.
"I don't float?"
"Just —" Trinity tugs gently at her arm, tries to guide her onto her back. "—float."
Victoria lets her pull her down until she's on her back in the water. "Like this?"
"Exactly like that."
The sky above them is blue blue blue like it can go on forever. The air and the water feel like they might be the same temperature. Trinity feels suspended, unsure where the air ends and the water begins. She wants to ask Victoria if she feels the same, but she's afraid that it will ruin the moment.
In the end, it's Victoria that speaks first.
"Can I kiss you?"
Trinity considers the words, tries to guess at what they might mean.
"Oh, god," Victoria laughs, realizing her mistake, her human-ness. "Can I, like, press my mouth against yours? Would you like that?"
"Oh," Trinity says. "Sure. We can try that."
Victoria's mouth is warm, and not salty at all.
Trinity decides that she likes kissing or, at least, that she likes kissing Victoria.
"Stay," she says, when Victoria breaks away. "We can kiss more."
But Victoria shakes her head. "I can't." She grabs Trinity's hands in hers and Trinity can feel that the skin of Victoria's fingertips are wrinkly from being in the water for too long.
"Stay," she says again.
"I can't."
"Stay or I'll drown you so you have to stay." Trinity feels desperate, but they both know that she doesn't really mean it. They both know that Victoria isn't meant to be a friend stuck on the ocean floor.
"I'll come back next year," Victoria promises.
Trinity dives under the water, desperate not to watch Victoria swim back to shore. If she doesn't see her leave, maybe then she isn't really gone.