The sun slipped from beneath a cloud, inflating into a
swollen orange-pink disc as it neared the line of the river. He found it funny
how the larger the sun grew, the cooler its heat became. Even its color seemed
to insist on heat, yet…
He strummed once on his guitar.
The water crept lazily onto the
sand, a slow wisp or suggestion of a whisper. It came as a breath between
notes, as an unspoken answer. It came to rinse the sand clean, but not far
enough to wash the footprints.
He adjusted
his guitar, pulling it closer and lifting its neck slightly. When the
footprints had been made, they had been soundless. But now they seemed noisier
than the waves and louder than the vibrating strings.
There were
three sets of footprints. Two coming, albeit disheveled and half-destroyed, and
one going, tiny little impressions that had managed disturb much of the sand in
their wake.
And she’d
always complained about grit between her toes. He strummed his guitar again.
Three
little words, and then silence. The rude encouragement of the waves. Perhaps
they were too insistent or not insistent enough. The sun had blushed and
vanished for the moment.
His fingers
brushed the guitar’s chords to block out the question that had followed. She
had left soon after.
It was a
Sunday evening. Why had she said it? After such a pleasant day…
He strummed
the guitar once more. The sun grew larger, lower, and cooler.
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