Sea Salt

Cynthia looked quietly out the car window as the neighborhood changed. First the University signs ceased to appear, then the old professors' houses and tree-lined streets gave way to more commercial byways, and then finally to a divided road which could have been Anywhere U.S.A., with its Boston Market and Blockbuster and the rest of franchise America, and she had to admit that, yes, the process of leaving her youngest son at college way indeed in the past. She knew this was a threshold moment, had been preparing for it, but now she just felt sort of empty and leaden. And, if she thought harder, uncertain about the future.

Her husband John, driving, looked over and raised an eyebrow. "You knew this was coming. You OK?"

But the tone wasn't warm, it was self-satisfied. 'Oh, so he's made his peace with emptying the nest, but I haven't...' she thought. And then she thought, 'I just don't know. Just us?'

Half-turning, she said, "It's OK. When do you think we'll be back." And she used the same cool tone, or tried to.

Redbook has hadn't mentioned the husband not changing at all might be the hardest part. Belke had said something about this, but it was hard after so many years of marriage to see other people's husbands in her own. 'Perhaps we all grow into islands with age,' she thought.

"I guess we don't have to go home. It is Saturday, and while I do have some work. . . hey, we're free. What shall we do, Miss Free-as-a-Bird?" said John.

And it was again in a tone of chipper spontaneity lacquered over indifference and isolation. 'He's just saying that because I asked to go home,' she thought.

"I do have that volunteering dinner tonight," Cynthia said, with a look that added, 'We're not free and don't play with me like a child.'

Then as Washington Road led out to Route 95, John staying on and drove past the onramp.

"You missed the . . ." And then she saw the set smile on his lips, and she knew the sparring continued.

"I have always wanted to see the Maryland coast," he said.

On they drove, eventually to Maitland State Park. It was a sweltering September day and Cynthia was wearing her white Ann Taylor blouse and a knee-cut beige silk skirt. Hardly beach-wear. But John stopped and got out. The sky was darkening and a thundershower rumbled afar off. John left his shoes in the car. Cynthia paused and pursed her lips.

"Oh, OK. Let's just go out to the jetty and back. It's not far and I think it's gonna rain soon anyways," he said. And so she got out, and just then the wind picked up, a hot wind off the shore. The beachgoers were heading in as it was approaching five o'clock and the weather was clearly turning foul.

"I think he'll be happy there."

"Did you see his room? I thought ours were small. But they put six kins in there. It's too much, really."

"I recall always being a free bedroom short in college," John said, and smiled at the ocean. Somehow the walk was lightening the mood, and the chill. Certainly the chill. Cynthia was now sweating visibly under her arms and down her back and at the backs of her legs. 'How could people stand Maryland?' And just then she felt the raindrop land large and wet on her arm.

"It's raining," she said, turning her head. And though they were only a few hundred yards from the car, she saw she wouldn't make it without ruining the silk skirt. A sheet of rain was moving fast across the estuary towards the cars, and them. She saw a fat man trying to run with a large cooler. She tugged at John and he turned slowly with an impish grin. Then the thunder cracked so crisply that both of them started, and then they began to run.

After ten steps, Cynthia lost her shoe, went back a step, tried to put it on hopping on one foot, and fell onto her knee, ripping the skirt slit audibly. John ran back. "I'll carry 'em. C'mon!" and as they turned again, the storm was on them. It is amazing how much water a Mid-Atlantic late afternoon thunderstorm can dump. And after running another thirty yards the thunder boomed exactly overhead and a searing bolt of lightening pulsed into the small hill behind the ranger station. Close. They stopped and looked at each other, panting and smiling in the warm rain.

"I'm soaked," said John, lifting his arms. The surf was pounding and the rain hissed on the ocean's surface.

"This is kind of fun," said Cynthia. And off she ran, away from the cars. John turned and saw it, a double lifeguard tower. And he ran pell-mell behind her. Cynthia had hiked her skirts up and was running wildly across the sand.

'God bless bicycling,' thought John, 'that she still has those legs. Those goddamn legs. Wow, and I've been too long on a college campus!' And he had, seeing the University girls in their low-riders and half shirts and having the urge to go, himself, out to the frats again.

Cynthia was under the tower, in a small three-walled room made by the frame. It opened onto the ocean and with the wind coming from land, afforded a perfect view and was protected from the rain. Her chest was heaving and John darted in next to her and gave her a squeeze and let go. But that squeeze felt good so he did it again and kissed her.

"I love storms," she said. "Can you believe this?" And her eyes were wide. That kiss had felt good and she looked at John, just shirt plastered to his body and his thin slacks gripping his thighs and she thought 'Wow.' His hair was tousled, wet and forward in his eyes. Somehow the shelter felt warmer.

John saw Cynthia's breasts clearly beneath the blouse. A $400 wet t-shirt contest and she was the winner, with her nipples, large as trench coat buttons, standing hard and perfect. He hugged her again and this time she returned the kiss, hard, the water still running from their hair down their faces. And he put a hand up to her breast. 'God, how did she keep these so fine all these years,' he thought.

She felt John unbuttoning her shirt and all of a sudden, she wanted him. Desperately. Maybe it was the minutes of watching the soccer guys at the University jogging back to the gym that had started her blood running hot earlier in the day. Maybe the break of the heat, or the electricity of the storm. Whatever the reason, she was on fire. So was he. John pulled her down and sat on the trauma board lying in the sand. It was perfect. Her shirt was open in an instant and God did her firm nipple feel good in his mouth. God did his warm mouth feel good massaging her nipple, kneading it. His hand was rubbing her groin now, the hard bone in front, then mashing the labia together, back and forth. She was wet, everywhere.

She pushed up and made him kneel. She unzipped his pants and popped the top button and out he sprang, surprised and surprising, always surprising a bit even after a lifetime of lovemaking on this very cock. And what a cock it was, too. She placed a hand around him, kissed the head and then looked up at him. She always smiled at the sight of his silver public hairs. No grey on his head, but a few silvers here. He was not happy with that and she loved to tease but not now. Now she wanted him and plunged him all the way back in her throat, and held it, for one gag reflex, and the backed off with a small cough and started sucking and stroking.

And then it was a blur. He was pushing her back and then in her, full to the hilt of his shovel-handle cock, and Cynthia rolled her eyes back and dug her heels into the back of his legs and thrust up, again, again, again, banging gloriously as the rain stormed and waves crashed and she swore the lightening flashed as she came while fucking him, which was rare, but oh how rare this was! Then John shuddered and came and collapsed, panting, with a little spasm in his legs. The rain began to lessen.

They would find plenty to do, she thought deliciously, rolling around in that great empty nest. They still had it.