She sat there, in the middle of the afternoon, watching the waves push the shoreline closer to her, as she perched on the steps of the beach house. The sky was sweatshirt gray, and the wind moved ahead of the waves, blowing in her face with determined persistence. Sea grass bent sideways from the wind, and the seagulls seemed suspended in midflight as they flew into the teeth of the storm. Rain had not yet formed, but was threatening with darkening clouds and the musty odor that precedes it.
A blanket covered her Indian style, her face the only visible proof that something living existed underneath it. Her dark brown eyes stung from the wind, yet her tears were more than just the casualties of the weather. She did not move to wipe them away, choosing instead to let them cascade over her reddened cheeks in an endless procession. Her hands gripped the edges of the blanket tightly, leaving her white knuckled, and tense with hurt and anger. Her black cableknit sweater and jeans provided little help in buffeting her from the harsh onslaught of the cold.
Why? Why had he done this to her? Damn him, she thought. She tried to focus, and found her mind running rampant along its edges, scattering logical thoughts and feelings and teetering on the precipice of irrationality. She could not understand his sudden need to leave. All that she understood was that he was gone.
* * * * *
Abby fixed herself another drink, the third or fourth. She couldn't remember. As she lifted the tumbler to her lips, a little of the scotch trickled down the side of her lips. She wiped it off with her fingers as she walked back into the living room that overlooked the ocean. Her eyes, red rimmed with tears, stared out of the window as she tried to warm herself by the fire. She had only been inside a short time, and her body refused to accept the fire's heat. She sat on the hearth, hugging the tumbler to her chest.
He had left that morning, before dawn. His note told her that he had to leave, nothing else. She barely remembered reading it. The rest of the morning had taken on a surreal quality, with fuzzy edges around the pictures. Now the scotch was replacing the shock as a painkiller, and she closed her eyes as it began having its effect.
She woke to the sound of a knocking at the door. Unaware of the time, she looked outside, and realized she had not been sleeping long. Her mind remained sluggish from the alcohol, the remnants of which sat in the glass next to her on the brick hearth. Abby willed herself up from the pillow in front of the hearth, and walked from the living room to the front door. She opened it without following her usual practice of looking to identify her guest.
His frame filled the doorway. "I couldn't leave. I love you," he said as he crossed the threshold and pulled her into his arms.
Abby put her arms around him and held on tightly, afraid to let go for fear that this was a dream. Tears once again began running in rivulets down her face and were captured by his shirt. "I love you too," she whispered through the tears as she looked up at him, her body encompassed by his.
His six foot frame enveloped her small body as he leaned down and kissed her deeply, passionately. His lips pressed against hers, his tongue penetrating her as he lifted her off the floor. She felt her breasts compress against his chest as he pulled her tighter, lifting her from her feet.
"I thought you were gone," she whispered as his lips trailed down over her cheek to her neck.
