The Ferry Out of Split and the Man Who Pretended Not to Be Watching

Ferries are the last honest form of public theater. Everyone is seated, nobody can leave, and the scenery is so good that staring is practically a civic duty. I took the late-morning boat out of Split with a paperback I had no intention of reading and a hat I hoped looked accidental.

He was three benches down, fifty-ish, linen shirt, a book open on his knee at what I could swear was the same page for forty minutes. His sunglasses were dark, which is the sort of thing that makes a man believe he has become invisible. I know the technique. I have used it on exes at weddings.

He was three benches down, fifty-ish, linen shirt, a book open on his knee at what I could swear was the same page for forty minutes.

What I find charming at forty-four, and could not have appreciated at twenty-four, is how plainly obvious these small performances are, and how kind it feels to let them continue. I turned a page. He turned a page. The sea went on being absurdly blue. At some point I crossed my ankles, and I saw the book take a very small tumble from his hands.

Neither of us said a word for the whole crossing. This is, I realize, the entire story, and I stand by it. When the island came into view and everybody rose to collect their bags, he gave me a nod so measured and gentlemanly that I felt as if I had been quietly thanked for something. I smiled back, the warm, unhurried smile of a woman who knows exactly what she did.

Some of the best romances last as long as a crossing and need nothing further. If you like stories built on glances and held-back words, Hannah on TheFriend has a harbor confession about a quiet deck and a game that begins without a word. It suits a boat, a balcony, or a Tuesday.

Meet Hannah: open Hannah's profile on TheFriend.