The drive down to the beach at night is a bit of an ordeal. The road has been neglected for years. It’s pitch black. Pot holes are everywhere. And one lane is half washed out. It really makes you work for it.
But once you arrive, you’ll be glad you risked a decent amount of automotive damage to get there.
Tonight the moon is cooperating. It’s bigger than usual, and has some kind of name the escapes him, but might have something to do with farmers or crops or… he doesn’t really care.
He’s got that excitement thing going that only happens when you are monumentally attracted to a woman. The slight shakiness. Like the chills. Do women get that?
Her dress helps. Or makes it worse.
This beach trip is a reward. He is receiving it, even though she’d rather be home in bed, because he agreed to go to an event with her. It involved people and food he doesn’t like (even though he’s never tried most of it.) She is extremely convincing.
On a wildly related note…
Back to the dress.
It’s navy, he supposes. And it is finely-stitched proof that you don’t have to show a lot of skin to make him, you know, want to see a lot of skin.
But the thing it does… Hell, there is no gentlemanly way to explain it, but it hugs her butt like a long-lost love. It also makes her legs look like the best kind of bad decisions.
He calls it her “millionaire’s mistress dress.”
“Because it would need more cleavage for a billionaire’s mistress?”
He wouldn’t like that.
This dress, on her, isn’t a punch in the face.
It grabs your soul by the shoulders and gives it a shake.
And keeps you shaking.
He parks the truck, turns off the ignition, and Prince keeps telling another her that he’ll never take the place of her man, for a few more seconds before he leaves them alone.
She opens the door and steps out.
The breeze chills, but is not really chilly.
He walks around the truck and joins her.
The ocean always smells fresh to him. Especially at night.
He takes her hand and guides her around rocks and that tall sharp grass. She hops out of her flip flops — she hopped out of her heels twenty minutes ago — and into the sand. She dances a little. He picks up her flip flops and follows her down the beach.
She dances a little more. He loves how she does excited.
He removes his sweater as soon as he sees her first little shiver. She bought him the sweater. When he tried it on, she asked him how he liked it.
“Won’t you be my neighbour?”
She slapped him on the arm. He thought about proposing on the spot.
The wind playfully teases at her hair, so she lifts it up. He sees the back of her neck and wants to plant the longest lovingest kiss and —
“I have that job interview on Monday,” she says out of nowhere, but someplace far away from where his mind was.
“Oh that’s right.”
“I’m nervous,” she says.
“You’ll do great. You’re an absolute delight.”
“The worst thing that could happen is you don’t get the job,” he says.
“My worst job interview was… five years ago? It was going so well, but the 60 year old male interviewer was very dull and serious. Then he asked me if I had any concerns about the position. I told him I was worried our jobs would suffer because of our obvious sexual chemistry.”
She tries to hold back the laugh, so as not to reward bad behaviour, but it only comes out louder.
“I love you,” she giggles.
“Why wouldn’t you!?”
She plops down and sits in the sandy. He plops down more slowly next to her.
She leans on his shoulder.
“I’ve always wanted to date a woman whose name is a classic song. Angie. Amanda, you know?” he asks.
“Sorry. Does mine disappoint you?”
“Nothing about you disappoints me.”
“Mmmm. You could write something with my name.”
The kiss he plants on top of her head hints that his brain is already starting on it.
He lets himself fall on his back, gently guiding her down with him, keeping his arm comfily under her head.
They stare up at the stars, and she notices how different they look away from a city.
Waves lap more quietly at night, it seems.
“Let’s go skinnydipping!” he says.
“It’s too cold!”
“I’ll warm you up after.”
“Why don’t we skip right to the warming up?”
“If you’re lying, I’m not going to talk to you for eighteen minutes.”
“Let’s go home?”
“Let’s go home.”
He stands up, takes her hand, and helps her to her feet.
She wraps her arm around his, and he grows an inch and a half in height.
The moonlight is hitting the slightly rippling Atlantic at a different angle now. Wispy clouds are no competition.
His brain writes, “there’s more natural / to the beauty / than she probably even sees / or is willing to rely on / i wonder / if she understands / that / I see flowers / growing in the openings / in a facade that isn’t / really / i hope she knows / that i see / it only adds to the picture”
He repeats it in his head, to keep it there until he finds a pen, as he spins her flip flops around on his fingers.
She feels the cool sand between her toes and hugs his arm tighter.