Saturday, September 17, 2005
Stinson Beach, mid-afternoon.
The white sun rays bounce perpendicular to the water making the waves look silver in a sea of molten metal.
You lie close enough next to me that your arm just barely touches mine, and for a long time we're both silent and terrifyingly immobile, you never saying what my brain screams ceaselessly inside my head in torment, and after an eternity that is somehow too short-lived, "Let's start heading back...", is all I hear you whisper.