SANTA MONICA

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Her burgundy knit hat caught a seaward gust and pulled toward the sound of the surf. Our towel had long since been dusted over, and my knees, curled beneath me for some time, ached. We'd begun a game, and for an hour neither of us moved. Our bodies stiff, our words stilted, we each determined to make the other suffer.

—Are they common, these gray days?

—Not terribly, I think.

My chilled hand rested fully on hers, heavy flesh. The breeze had wiped it dry. I gave no comforting squeeze, made no attempt, even, to restore the flow of blood to my fingers.

—There aren't many people here.

—The dreary weather, I would imagine. And a Wednesday.

My stomach thundered, and for a moment I thought I'd given myself away. But she neither looked toward me nor turned. Her gaze held inches in front of my face, as it had for some time. She'd lost the depth of her eyes, so I worked to make mine do the same.

—The gulls. They've gathered just off shore.

—Perhaps there's something dead washing up.

Her lips came together, and I nearly winced at the sight. They pressed slightly and then relaxed, a ritual I'd seen a thousand times before and loved from the start. A pang shot out with full intent to take me over. But I swallowed it and closed my eyes against another swirl of sand and salt, dragged past into the gray of the low Santa Monica swell.