Here is the opening of my story, 'Widows Walk'

'The wind has risen. The tide has turned, running away from us. The boats unable to reach the safety of the harbour will have to remain at sea ‘til morning. You won’t get any sleep tonight. I’ve a feeling I won’t either.

The full moon has been hanging above us all day. A pale, leprous stain in the sky. It always seems odd, out of place, when something we know can’t happen, happens. Things like  ̶  the moon comes out in the day, rivers flow upstream, prayers being answered.

I’ve felt you scanning the sky and the harbour road before. Today though, I’ve seen you watching me as well, a question reflected in your eyes, one you’re dying to ask, but are too afraid.

When you’re in the house, you prefer to be alone. You’ve made it very clear, and I respect that. But today, disturbingly, you’ve been following me around like a shadow. I know you - you hate being cooped up in the house. You can’t wait for the moon to rise before heading to the stairs. Your place is up there on the widow’s walk, in the breeze, your long, dark dress snapping, thumping as it’s snatched up in the wind. A soft echo of heavy, dancing sails catching the billowing gusts. A sound our husbands know well, a sound they love deeply. But they only hear it, embrace it, yield to it, when they’ve left us behind. And who can blame them? Those enticing, argumentative airs battling each other, the strength of the ship in her moment of surrender. Then, a breath gasped as she lifts, and falls, plunging into the waves, only to be lifted once more and they both, the wind and the ship, like lovers, wrapped in each other’s arms, race to fall together over the dark horizon.

You’re convinced he’ll return for you. When I catch your face in the mirror, when you think no one is watching, I can see it in your eyes. Do you see the same kind of hope in mine?

I wish to God you’d say whatever it is that’s eating you. Spit it out, get it over with. Let’s move on! Yes, I know, you’d rather die first. A vain hope on my part.'