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The gentle bells of seashell crashing on seashell.
The crunch under your feet as you pick up a fragment of a conch.
The pulled cotton of rain stretching to meet the sea.
The giddy anticipation of seeing lightning too far to reach you, and the scent of that same storm moving toward you.
The way sand and water slip through your fingers all the same.
The laughing gull, picking through the surf.
The skimmer, rushing wide-mouthed along the shoreline.
The pelican, bobbing serenely on the waves.
The frigatebird, kite-like against the dappled sky.
Boys (men?) cheering as they pull a thrashing tarpon from the water.
Boys sighing as it gets away right after the first lands his fingers on it.
Boys clapping each other on the back as they walk away from the pier, leaving a plastic bag of bait fish half-buried in the sand.
The trod-on fishhook. As you pull it from your foot you remember warning her of it. Once.
The dull glow of the sky right after the sun sets. It couldn't have been. It wasn't. It never was.
The crescent moon on the water. It was gibbous - waxing! - when you met her.
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