Beach

It’s time to go home, but for the life of him he can’t take his eyes off her. He’s willing hers to stare back, but never really supposes she will, which is why – when she does – he loses that focus for a second. We’ve been here before he thinks, or rather says out loud.

“Yes!” she’s agreeing, not specifically with a sentiment she can’t possibly understand, but more with talking. Yes: we are still here, still talking. Don’t leave.

There is a problem. He can’t stay at hers tonight, her man wouldn’t understand, or more to the point, would very much understand. So he has to stay with a friend, who-

“I’m not going to the beach. I hate the beach.” Let’s go to the beach, with the pebbles and the tide, and this woman, this one here. Something can happen. Don’t do this! “I’m going home. Come on.”

If he tilts his head, he can see the night. He can see waves and her sweat, her perfume touch-tagging the salt in the air. The awkward few months and the goodbye letter, unwritten and inserted into the card between the sentiments. She would thank him, for that.

Doors open, engines fire. She hugs him once, and then pushes deeper into him for the second, close as she can until there’s barely air between them. And then the tide takes her, carries her out.