Short fiction about to Counting on the Waves

He didn't see the lady remaining close to him until her face, white and round as the moon, was looking into the vehicle. Her silver hair, long and slender, moved in the breeze.
Her hand moved around and around, motioning toward him to lower the window.

"You come here a ton," she said. "I see you when I walk the ocean side around evening time."

"Where are you strolling?" he inquired.
"Gracious, it doesn't make any difference," she said, lifting her long fingers toward the Atlantic. "I don't monitor my means, however they actually count."

He considered the number of calories per step her little casing wore off as she struggled the pungent breeze.
"What do you do when you come here around evening time?" she inquired.

"I count the waves."
"From the sea? Or on the other hand individuals?"
He watched her lift her hand, as though she were flagging down an undetectable taxi; then she was swinging it to and fro, multiple times, clucking into the dull.
"From the sea," he answered, level as ice.
"Intense gig for something that goes on and on forever."

However, his counting finished. He generally completed when he felt a tick in his mind, as though a quarter had dropped clean into a compensation telephone for an unmistakable and even dial tone. By then, he would turn the vehicle around to move his body back home.
She turned away from the water, close to the thruway.

"I used to live in California and drive to the Pacific Sea around evening time in this old van I purchased in Oakland," she said. "I probably been around your age. How old would you say you are?"
"I'm 26," he said. "Also, 7 months and 14 days."
"You really do like counting, don't you?" she said, snickering when he looked vacantly toward her.
"I've never been west," he said.
"All things considered, what course do you commute home from here?"

"Away from the water."
"Then you've been west."
Of the relative multitude of evenings he had come here, this was whenever he'd first addressed somebody. Generally he would leave the vehicle in the part, void after the sightseers had returned home, and gaze at the rushes of the Atlantic Sea breaking over themselves. He would stand by listening to them crash, willing them to agree with the beat of the music on the radio, considering each wave it thundered across the sand.

He had forever been this way, he considered on his commute home that evening, long after the lady vanished into the dull. As a kid, he'd remained in from break to include the minuscule chips in the painted study hall wall. He had a companion in class he would trade notes with: word games, pictures of dinosaurs, spaceships, creatures. At the point when he requested that his companion stay in, counting, the companion pivoted and ran out the side entryway, kickball close by.

"What did you do today?" his mother had asked that evening, getting him from school.

"Counted," he had said. "I included flies in the windows and bits of broken chalk. Furthermore, the minutes in the day until you got me."
His mother had contacted her hand across the vehicle and scoured the rear of his head. Multiple times, he had taken note.

At the point when he got to middle school, he included the twistings in his note pad. At the point when he got his driver's permit, he counted vehicles passing him on the interstate. During the next years, it was tastes of espresso, pages read, seats on the train, and presently, at 26 years (and 7 months and 14 days) old, waves at the ocean side.

It was dependably dull when he showed up — the Atlantic as dark as an injury. He appreciated staying here, alone, paying attention to the water at the edge of the landmass.
Here and there, however, it seemed like gazing at a wall.

The following time he saw her strolling around evening time, she lifted her arm and motioned toward him; he opened his hand back to her and lowered the window.

"No doubt about it," she said. "As reliable as the sea before us."
"There's something else to count."
"I figured you could leave for the Pacific after our visit."
"Not yet," he said.
"'Go West, young fellow.' Somebody said that once. Do you have at least some idea who?"
Actually he didn't.
"Nor I," she said. "As far as you might be aware, it was me, seconds ago."

He grinned.
"It is right there, I was pondering when you would break," she said. "What number of waves do you have this evening?"
"I had 49, until you arrived and I lost track."
"Also, shouldn't something be said about these?" She lifted her arm once more, moving it this way and that.
"Just you," he said. "Two times."
"Ok, however you waved to me too," she said. "So that is three."
Once more, he grinned.
"For what reason do you count the waves?" she inquired.
"It's encouraging," he said. "The numbers are generally there; I realize that two follows one."

"Ok, yet aren't there numbers between them?" she said. "One and two might stand by, yet there's dependably portions and decimals developing and moving, numbers moving that you can't see."
He hadn't considered it that way, and he told her so.
"You help me to remember myself before I was in California," she said. "Everything was so perfect before then, at that point, — twelve eggs in each container, a wall in each yard."
She looked toward the parkway, away from the waves.
"At the point when I saw the Pacific interestingly, everything felt bigger — the amazing open doors, the energy."
She moved back to him.

"The waves, as well," she said. "I believed that everybody had their life arranged out. At the point when I purchased that van, I was stunned to see that there was no clock inside. I began to head to the ocean side, regardless of the time, at whatever point I wanted to see the water."

"Was that when you began strolling around evening time?"
He assumed he discovered her grinning.
"Indeed," she said. "What's more, I met a lot of others who cherished strolling however much I do."

Both of them remained there briefly — he putting in the vehicle with the windows down, she remaining in the parking area a couple of feet away — paying attention to the unobtrusive moves of the water.
"At times on my strolls here," she said, "I take a gander at the Atlantic and think, even the waves crashing here arrive at west."

After she sneaked back into the evening, he turned his vehicle around to commute home. West was the best way to go, away from the layered, twirling ocean.

His home was 3.2 miles away; the Inlet Region was 3,067.5 miles from that point, a 46-hour venture he could separate north of seven days. He put the odometer to nothing. Maybe one evening, he thought, I'll continue to drive. There's continuously something moving, ready to be found between two places.