I added a new paragraph at the end to this...

Mermaid

The sea washes over her feet as the sun sets in a bloody fire over the horizon. The slashes of red and gold flow over the horizon in long streaks. She stares out blankly and lets the water flow up and over long thin her legs, letting the cold sea water carry the sand from beneath her and out to sea. She is dressed in graying ragged jeans that fall around her in threads and strips. Her sweater is green and baggy, hanging off her thin shoulders, the hem unraveling in places.
I stand at the back door of the beach house and watched as the tide comes in, slowly swallowing her up as the sun sets. As the water rises the scraps of her clothing float up around her like kelp, the water tugging and pulling at her arms. I know that soon the water will be high and she will be gone, leaving no trace of her long vigil on the beach below.
"Are you coming!?" Melissa calls, exasperation making her normally clear voice harsh. My wife never could see her, and goes about her evening as usual, preparing dinner as if a young woman doesn't die in our backyard every night.
I wait at the door, tense, waiting for the body to wash ashore, just like last night and the night before. I tell myself that tonight I will go out there and find her. I'll go out and save her. I'll go...
"Jerry! I've called you three times, didn't you hear me?" Her hair is limp and blond, and it seems to float up before the waves swallow her, leaving no trace.
"Jerry?" I turn and go into the kitchen, ready to wait another day to see her fair shining face and limp sagging clothes walking down the sand to the sea.
"Hello, are we all still here? Dinner's been ready for ten minutes already. It’s getting cold." Melissa is short and plump, with chestnut brown hair falling in fine waves and curl to her shoulders. We had been married for fifteen years now, living just us. Since I had retired 1 year ago from my practice in the city, we had lived here at this beach house just enjoying each others company. Having not seen her for the first fourteen years of our marriage, I had assumed that upon retiring we would like each other that much more. But I suppose that having a stranger in the house is better than having no-one at all.
"You're quiet tonight, did you do anything interesting today? Mary at the store says that we'll be getting that big shopping mall contract down the road. I can't wait to be able to get out a bit and do some shopping without having to drive for an hour each way. I don't know what's worse, seeing you moping around all day doing nothing or having to drive halfway across the county just to buy groceries."
I wonder who she is. Thoughts of her preoccupy me throughout my day. Melissa has gone to her book group, or was it her church group. Does she still go to church? I don't even pay attention anymore. I certainly don't go anywhere, I would have to leave the beach and the girl in the surf. I don't go out much, hoping that she will appear one day. Maybe she'll look over and see me watching her. Maybe that day will be the day that she steps back and walks toward the house, away from the surf and the water and doesn't disappear in the waves.
I've never called the cops. I don't know what I'd say. At first when I saw her I just thought she was some kid who like to go swimming at night, but I never saw her come back and its the same every night. The first time I saw her, I almost opened the screen door. Almost went out there to run her off or something equally home-ownerish. I don't know what I was going to say, maybe "Hey kid! This is private property!" or "Hey you, get out of there, it's not safe!" I never got farther than the screen door, never quite got it open.
Evening again and I am waiting for her. She appears, coming over the dunes from the south like yesterday and the day before. Today I am going to go out, today I am going to catch her and keep her from going into the sea. I am going out the door. I feel the sand under my feet, hot from the day's sun. It drags at my feet, running and falling over the dunes down to the water line. The salt grass smells pungent as I plunge headlong over the crest of the dune, and I see her. I stop, panting and gasping for air.
She comes down the dunes and I see her face for the first time. It is long and lean surrounded by her floating golden hair. Part of me pauses, perhaps for the first time and wonders why I have never seen her face before this. The sun reflects off of the gold of her hair and I forget, stumbling forward again. The dune grasses are sharp and they cut my hands and bare feet. Salt stings the wounds.
She doesn't look my way she just walks slowly as if her feet pain her, slowly towards the water line. We are only two dunes away now and I can see her more clearly. Water and salt crust the sweater and I can smell the rotten seaweed from here. The hem is ragged and I see a slimy sheen to it that doesn't look quite right. Her pants that I had thought were jeans are gray and wet looking, hugging her thighs and caressing her ankles like tendrils in the foam of the surf.
"Jerry?!!" A far away voice calling from behind me. I can't remember who it belongs to.
I walk slowly towards her topping the last dune, and she is now only a few yards from me. The sweater is made from woven kelp and it stinks of rotten fish. The pants are made of something that I can't name, but they writhe white and wet. She is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. Sunlight shines off her golden hair as she turns towards me for the first time and smiles. Sharp white teeth are all I can see and I follow her into the surf as the tide comes in.

The body had washed ashore over the night, and dawn broke, shining down on the pale sagging flesh and ripped clothes. The waves lapped at the feet and hands, small crabs nibbling on the toes of the bare feet. There were cuts on the hands and feet with red ragged edges. The eyes were glazed, but the blue lips curved up in a small blissful smile. By the body sat a young girl. From a distance she appeared to be dressed in a ragged green sweater and faded ripped jeans, her hand occasionally reaching down to stroke the dead man's hair lovingly.