She of The Sea

"Look at this one," She held up a pebble the size and shape of old penny candy. It was quite slick from the ocean and dribbled down her fingers. She squinted and smiled to him; her fingers muddy, her feet sandy up to her ankles. He held his flip-flops and her sandals, trailing behind her as she padded along the ocean's edge.

She picked through strewn crabshells and litter, the endless tangles of seaweed, and found small stones like this, flat and smoothed over. She collected them into her hand, making sure to show him each one.

"This one's got a stripe that goes all the way around." And so it did. As they meandered, the ocean crept up to them, each wave thinning and shallow as a puddle after all that crashing noise. Each wave licked at their feet and then just as quickly receeded, slipping back to join the others. The water was too cold for him and he avoided these approaches. However she let the waves rustle luxuriously over her toes and spatter the hem of her skirt.

When the water fell away, she stooped to pluck up another small stone. She held it up as if to see it closer, and then secretly tasted it. He could see this, though she turned to hide the motion from him.

If it were night, she would have stripped and dashed headlong into the deep.

And he would have said lamely, "Here, I'll hold your clothes so they don't get sandy." She would have poured the gathered stones carefully into his hands, handed him her crumpled garments, kissed his cheek and left him blushing and flustered on the shore by the moonlit dark water to watch.