The Dock Crane – Part 2: Night Shift

The storm shut the port at ten.

A North Sea gale tore across the harbour, whipping the Maas to white froth. The ships sat at anchor. The cranes stood idle. For the first time in years, the terminal fell quiet, with only the howl of the wind, the groan of steel and the long orange glow of the dock lights.

Anouk was in the cab, finishing a report. A knock sounded on the ladder. She opened the hatch to find Jesse, soaked to the skin, grinning.

"The pilot station's closed," he said. "I thought, where is the safest place?"

"A crane is the safest place in a gale?"

"It has a lightning rod."

"It has a very tall lightning rod."

"I'll risk it."

She pulled him in. He dripped happily on the floor. She wrapped him in a blanket from the storage locker and poured him a cup of hot coffee from her thermos. They sat side by side on the narrow bench, shoulders pressed together, watching the storm.

The harbour below was a sea of orange light and black water, lashed by rain. Waves broke against the quay. The wind shook the glass. But the cab was warm, and small, and theirs.

"Good morning," said Jesse, at midnight.

"It's night."

"It's morning somewhere."

"Can I ask you something?" said Anouk.

"Yes."

"Why did you say good morning every day?"

"Because it was the only thing I could think of that meant: I'm thinking of you," said Jesse, quietly.

Her throat tightened. "May I kiss you?"

"Yes," he said. "And if you say stop, you must take me up in the crane at dawn."

"That isn't a punishment."

"I'm learning."

She kissed him, warm and a little shy, a hand rising to his damp hair. He kissed her back, slow and sweet, tasting of coffee and rain. The storm raged on, far below.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Anouk. "Very green."

They say good morning to each other on Channel Nine at six. Sometimes they say it in person, which is better.

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