Excerpt:

She ran, and inhaled the wind in sharp, painful gasps. She wanted to keep running, keep running and never stop, run on and on and on until she came to the water, and keep running, running on it and into it and run to the middle of the atlantic and drown in her sorrow. She felt ineffably appreciative of the current weather, which so appropriately reflected her mood: the skies were a dark grey, the late winter wind, biting and brisk, flew by her at rapid velocities from the ocean as she ran, and she could tell that rain was on the way. She wished she could be blown away completely by the wind, become incorporeal and fly with the elements.
Diana burst out of the secluded lane down which she had been sprinting and came out along the road that paralleled the rocky beach. Somewhat disparaged that her run had comed to an end so soon, she leapt up on the rock wall that separated the road from the beach below and took in the furious, brooding vista before her while panting as if her lungs were about to fall out.
The clouds were moving fast and furiously over her, rushing from sea onto land like an endless army of troops mounting an assault on the haughty terrestrial forces always facing them. The water roiled like a ravaged battlefield writhing in hot, furious emotion. She wished she were a part of that battle, instead of this weak, envious onlooker, not so much a soldier as a child forced by the forces that be to watch in confused, intense anxiety nonetheless. She could see, not far off, that the rain was coming – good. It would embroil her in the battle too – she would be caught between water and wind and rock and be ravaged on all sides. She longed to be numbed by the wind – which, considering the thin shirt she was wearing which left her arms completely exposed, would happen soon enough, she thought. She wanted to be drowned by the rain, numbed to her core to forget her sorrow, drowned by the elements, reduced to complete insignificance. She just wanted to go away.
There were no boats on the water, she noticed; sane people had all retired to harbor. (Sane people. Happy people. Naïve people.) Yet something to her left had caught her eye, and now she turned her gaze sharply (realizing as she did so that she was somewhat dizzy from her all-out sprint). She would have laughed at what she saw, had this been a few days ago (and had she had any breath to do it). Out on the water before her was a figure of a man, standing upright amidst the waves. It was a clever get-up: for a moment Diana had almost thought it was real. She wondered what sort of buoy it was, and what it marked. It was only about fifty yards or so out, so it might have been some sort of mechanism to catch crabs…
And then, to her complete shock, the figure took a step. She noticed now that the water around him was becalmed in a radius of about ten feet. The sight was otherworldly – amidst a fiercely boiling sea suffused with angrily undulating waves, the disc of determined serenity stood out like an evangelist at a local gun show. How, exactly, was this whole thing working?
She barely had time to think as the figure took several more steps out to sea and looked up into the clouds pleadingly, with utmost submission. His face was still indistinguishable, but even from this distance she could see that his eyes were a dark, earthy brown. She was now convinced: she was looking at no buoy. What she saw before her was a man. A man who was walking on water.