What does the protagonist find in the ocean under his bed? 

I knew it for sure one hot sleepless night that an ocean lay under my bed.

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An ocean that the local tailor, old and sly, had cut exactly into a size that one could store under the grand mahogany bed.

I had been hearing the tiny waves for a while, and I had told my wife once that I think there is an ocean down there. She had asked me where the newspaper was. She had wanted to finish the crossword puzzle. 

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That night I could smell salt. That night I could smell sand. That night I could feel around my knees thick coarse ropes to anchor vessels. That night I could hear the last call of seagulls at dusk and the lightning-fast scampering of crab feet towards the tiniest piercings on the beach as humans approached. That night I could see the dry, rough exteriors of gaudily painted dinghy boats bearing marks of water, blobbing up and down as the boatman would push them towards the buoy. 

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All of it under my bed.

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My throat parched, I screamed “Julie”!

Julie appeared at the door, her face puffed, her housecoat hanging behind her.

“Under the bed!” I gasped.

She frowned and moved into the room. I shrieked, “Your dress will get wet!”

“Did you keep the lid of the bottle open again?”

“This isn’t about the bottle of water. It’s about the ocean.”

Julie stood still for a while, picked up the empty water bottle, and then gave me another bottle of water for the night, saying, “It is humid. Try to get some sleep.”

As she moved out, I noticed how the lower part of her dress, heavy and crumpled, left a wet sandy trail behind.

An ocean lay under my bed.

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An ocean that the local fishermen used as a table-top to heap their catches of the day. The smell of raw fish kept covered inside wicker baskets drove me crazy. When I crouched to take a close look, they showed me their exhibits. Some of the fish were alive, fearfully beating their tails around small bowls of water. Some of them gasped and became dead-still. Seeing their open mouths and bulging eyes, I remembered how one early morning we had found Maria at the foot of the lighthouse tower, her body bloated and immobile. Her eyes had looked triumphant, they had seemed to say, I have got you one, bro! Now you can spite the Big Boy’s Gang and make up for losing the tug-of-war. Unfold my palm, it’s here, inside, take it before they gather here, curious and scared, excited and counting on their fingertips how many deaths-by-drowning they had seen, to take one last look at me.

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Some people had told us later that they had seen her going for a swim in the ocean although she had just begun learning at the town club a week or two ago. At the funeral, mom had described her as ‘a brave and adventurous soul, selfless and devoted to her family, who would not hesitate to risk her life for her own folks.’ Dad and others had scoffed at that and had got inscribed on the tombstone, ‘a reckless, stubborn, foolish wildflower, picked up and thrown away before she could learn how to survive storms and high tides.’

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I had found it, a star anise-like sea shell, a rare and a unique natural gift, tightly held within the clutch of her hand after we had found her. Years later, I had proposed to Julie with that sea shell in hand, a tiny strip of a paper saying a simple, direct, ‘will you marry me?’ folded inside its belly. As Julie had inched closer to me, her lips slightly parted, anticipating a kiss, I had gently but firmly taken the sea shell out of her hands and put it in my pocket.

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I found now that the men had spread their fishing nets on the water, checking for hidden catches. I too began looking for another star anise-like sea shell, worried that I might have misplaced the original one. When Julie entered, she saw me picking through the nets, strumming the mesh like the strings of a bass guitar.

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“Did you drop something?” She was both concerned and unconvinced.

“Watch out, it’s muddy here.”

“The floor is as dry as the fireplace logs. What are you looking for?”

“Remember Maria’s gift to me, the one with which I had proposed you? I am looking for another one.” I gave a quick glance as I spoke.

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She looked hard at me, her eyes narrow and troubled. I ignored her and paddled through the water, muttering, “Perhaps I need to go deeper inside, as she had gone. Unique gifts are rarely found on the shore.”

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“Stop crawling and come out from there.” Then she paused. Her face changed and she added, “Honey, happy anniversary.” Her forehead straightened and a faint smile settled on her lips.

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I looked fully at her. “I’ll wash the sand off my feet and join you for breakfast. Give me five minutes.” I threw her a flying kiss.

Sometime later I arrived at the dining table. My happy whistling made our pet dog wonder if it was time for an afternoon walk.

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As I was about to help myself to the broth, I remembered something and drove my hand deep inside my trouser pocket to pull out a sea shell, washed clean by the waves deep inside, a home for secret whispers and renewed pledges. 

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“Happy anniversary, sweetie,” I passed it on from my palm to hers. “Guess what? I picked up a rare star anise shell for you.”

In the next few seconds as Julie yelled, pushing back her chair, and our Golden barked insanely, we saw a slippery, slithery, silvery fish, meaty and oily enough to be the catch of the day, leap from her palm and hurriedly dive into the ocean under my bed in the adjacent room.