Susan walks to the market with her hands in her pockets. It is not exactly cold,  but a biting wind makes her hunch her shoulder and wish she had worn her coat. The market is small, but warm. She unfurls a little. She picks over the vegetables. They are not fresh. No new stock has come in over the holidays. One pack of sad cherry tomatoes remains, wilting in their own yellow juices. Susan replaces it on the shelf. She could walk to the farther away market, but she probably won’t. She buys some oranges instead, dropping them in the plastic bag, one by one, counting: Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. She places the bag on the machine and types in the code. They are inexpensive, enough vitamin C for the week. She scans the little shop and mentally plans her meals based on the available ingredients. Some pasta with mushrooms, zucchini, and canned tomatoes. Spices and herbs are limited, but she finds some dusty oregano at the back of a shelf; it will have to do. She also buys: bread, yogurt, butter, eggs, onions, cheese, apples, a box of tea, and a bar of chocolate. She does the math in her head as she places the items carefully in her basket. She can make it last the week. The young girl at the check out smiles at her as she hands her the receipt. Susan takes it from her, but cannot return her smile. 

Through a quirk of fate, she has found herself in this small town at the edge of the sea in a country she has never been to before. The friend of a colleague is traveling for work and needs a house sitter. Would she be interested? Yes. She answered immediately and bought her flight. The apartment is a gift. The apartment with its Scandinavian furniture, jacuzzi, heated floors, powered wooden shutters, and sea-facing balcony is the nicest place she has ever lived. She clicks the switch on the shutters in the morning and gazes at the sea as it shifts from dark to light, a faint lilac tinge on the horizon. She soaks in the huge tub at night. During the day, she sits in an overstuffed chair with her laptop and applies for jobs. 

Two weeks ago, she was a teacher. Two weeks ago, she had students. Students without holes in them. Smiling and laughing, fighting and whining, joking and teasing, gazing glassy-eyed with their heads propped up by their elbows. Little people. Whole people. Whole lives ahead of them.

She didn’t think she could go back. Maybe ever. The job openings were for test evaluators, curriculum developers, ed tech marketers. None of them sound remotely interesting. But she has a master’s degree and ten years in education. What else is she supposed to do?

So, she sits in the chair and types, while watching  the colors of the sea change throughout the day. From black to slate gray, to deep blue with blinding sparkles, to every color of the sunset. She makes her pasta, buys a sandwich at the corner bakery for lunch, drinks her tea in the mornings. She wanders around the neighborhood in awe of the age of bricks and stones and tiles. She feels herself slowly coming  back to life. The sea is pulling something out of her, or else pouring something in.

One day, she gets a call from her friend. They chat, and she actually laughs. A miracle. The next day, she smiles at the lady behind the counter at the bakery. She waves at a baby being pushed in a stroller down the sidewalk. She takes a bath and cries. She wakes up early one morning to hike to the top of the city to watch the sunrise. She moves her laptop to a cafe and surrounds herself with the pleasant bustling of baristas and the chatter of coffee-drinkers. She walks to the farmers market and buys a kilo of oranges from a rosy-cheeked man for one euro. She eats them on the balcony until her hands become stained with their scent. 

Weeks pass and finally the time comes for her to fly back home. She has one interview for a job teaching English to Korean students online for $20 an hour. She was hesitant to apply to that one because it’s student-facing, but she has bills to pay. She thinks about her time in Korea, teaching English through a government program. The experience that inspired her to become a teacher in the first place. Her apartment there, though tiny and mold-ridden, was two blocks from the sea. And if she perched on her wobbly desk and pushed her face against the window, she could actually see a sliver of it shining between the neighboring buildings. She made friends there, other foreigners and local teachers. It was maybe the first time in her life where she had a sense of belonging, of purpose. The first time, she felt like she was doing what she was meant to do. 

The day before she gets on the bus that will take her to the airport, she walks back to the little market. She picks out a single apple and a small bun. Snacks for tomorrow. Three young Sikh men stand in the line in front of her. They are very young, boys almost, and they are foreigners like her—though she doesn’t look it. They ask the cashier in hesitant English if the store sells sim cards. The cashier is rude and does not help them. 

“Go to the cigarette stand,” she says, waving them on. 

Susan pays for her items quickly and runs out the door to catch up with the boys. She happens to know where the cigarette stand is. She shows them on her phone and points down to the main street, gesturing a left turn. 

“It has a big red awning.” 

She stretches her hands wide overhead, miming the awning. The young men nod. They know it. They thank her and smile big, white smiles. She smiles back. They turn to walk down towards the main promenade where she had pointed. She watches them for a moment and wishes she could hug them. Instead, she draws her coat closer. It’s another cold day, but Susan feels warm as she walks back up the hill to the apartment. She has one last sunset to enjoy, and after that, who knows what the tide will bring.