Leaning on the porch rail, she sipped her coffee and watched the sea crash in, a sharp salty wind blowing her hair recklessly as if trying to loosen it from her scalp. She worried it would get in her coffee, but as much as she needed the caffeine to wake up, she needed to take in the sea’s temper as the storm rolled in.
The sea was her muse. She wondered if she were a descendant of some god-child of Poseidon. Ever since she first laid eyes on it, the ocean coaxed emotion from her brush and her hobby flourished into a thriving business.
The slam of wood violently hurled upon wood snapped her attention to the neighbor’s house, where the screen door, covered in thick plywood, had loosened, the wind toying with it, trying to break the hinges.
The neighbors might have left, but she was staying put. No hurricane could destroy her. She was a woman of the sea! She was right where she always wanted to be, blissfully content and no strings left unattached.
She finished her coffee and picked up a brush.