Dunnage

The barge sludged slowly through the harbor. He tracked its progress by comparing the position of its bow to the gargoyle on the end of the bridge. It emerged through the beast's open mouth, being eaten in reverse.

His hands hid in his pockets, avoiding the cold air that became visible each time he let out a breath. He jingled the coins he found unexpectedly, rubbed them with his fingertips. He wondered if he could guess which coin it was based on the impression of the face. Lincoln, Jefferson, Roosevelt, or Washington. Did it matter?

A bird flew overhead, distracting him from the barge. He followed it with his eyes, then with his feet. Over the bridge, to the cabin on the other side. She was inside, waiting for him. Thin smoke snaked up from the chimney, and he pictured her wrapped in a blanket by the fire.

He set the coins on the front porch, pulled a receipt from his wallet, and a pen from his front shirt pocket. He scribbled a note, re-crossed the bridge, and turned left, away.

Hours later, when he was undeniably late, not answering her calls, she put out the fire and put on her clothes. As she stood on the porch tying the laces of her boots, she noticed what he'd left. She picked up the coins, the hasty note.

"It's time for a change."