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We took the ferry across the channel. We had come by the tunnel but now we were going over that tunnel. The weight of the water and our sorrows pressed down on the concrete tube and made it groan with the sighs of a hundred submerged years. I took your hand in mine. It was cold like it usually is. Your tears blew behind you in the wind. I couldn’t tell. It was raining. Your lips had turned blue. So had mine. The water behind us churned with white foam. The ferry had sprung a leak. It was only figurative. Still, the captain warned us. He said we had two more minutes to live in the memories of man. He jumped ship and swam to shore. It wasn’t far. I am a strong swimmer. You are fairly competent. We closed our eyes and fell into the ocean. You started to sink. Your memories, you said, were too much to lift. I took your hand and pulled you up. I couldn’t swim with the weight of my sorrows. My cigarettes fell out of my pocket. My sorrows were lifted. I pulled you to the shore. The seawall was tall and slick with the blood of the sea. The tank traps of a long forgotten war still sat on the beach. We sat on one and felt the ancient concrete give with the burden of our lives. The sun finally set. We blew smoke out of our mouths and watched the steam rise off each other. Your eyes were red from the salt. I kissed them. Your tears tasted like the ocean. It was cold. You were warm.



PROMPT: "the last five minutes in an experimental black and white french film"