The sea is a living thing: shifting, expanding, slipping, withdrawing.
In the depths below I watch him sway, caught up in the kelp. It’s wrapped around his wrists and weaves through his hair.
When I swim past him I can see my silver body reflected in his flat, murky eyes.
Nanna is an Icelandic freelance journalist and writer with her nose to the grindstone. It hurts; please, someone send medical help.