She was finally resting.

No weight on her, no tension, just her body stretched out under the sun as if she owned the sea itself.

Half-shadow, half-flame.

Around us: noise, people, summer air. Between us: a silence so charged it could set the sand on fire.

She rested as if nothing mattered, but every movement was a dare.
A slow fire asking how long I could endure.

A game we played where silence spoke louder than touch.

She wasn’t teasing me. She was daring me.
To lose control, to forget the world ...

I remember her like this. Barefoot, sun-drunk, stretched against the lines of a boat.
The air smelled of salt, the sea hummed its endless song, and for once, nothing felt urgent.

The sea stretched out forever, and for one afternoon, time did not exist.
She lay back against the wood, eyes closed, her body surrendered to the horizon.

The world could fall apart, and still she would float.

The lines are simple, almost fragile, but the feeling isn’t.
It’s the calm after the storm, the silence after years of wanting.

I painted it in the Costa Brava, when we were living there.
I had fallen in love with those traditional fishing boats near Begur.

I always said that one day, we would have our house, and this boat.
And that I would watch her like this. Weightless, free, no struggle left.

It is a vow. A goal. A dream, painted before it arrived.

 She wasn’t standing, she was floating.

I knew every inch of her. Every line, every curve, every detail of her skin was a map I had memorized by heart.
I could have drawn her in the dark.

And yet, the moment she wasn’t in front of me, she became something else.

She blurred into something larger than form.
Slipping through my hands even as I tried to hold her.
Every edge blurred into the current, every line dissolved into memory.

I saw a tide, a current, a moon. I saw the mystery of night rising inside her. I saw in fragments, in pulses, in waves that drown more than they reveal. Not sharp, not defined.

She loved the sea, the kites, the dives, the salt that never left her skin.
She always belonged to the water.

Waves don’t destroy stone in a single gesture. They erode it slowly, curve by curve.
Maybe that’s why she returns to me like this. Half-woman, half-water, dissolving into blue.

Presence and absence at once.

All I remember is how they moved, like cats :

Elegant, playful, ruthless.

In every story, there is someone who watches.
This figure is that presence: the silent witness of desire, of violence, of intimacy, of time itself.
This is not someone. It is everyone.
The line archetype of that remains.
Human stripped of all identity, left as pure being.