This is a work of fantasy. It is not about real people, and if it is, it's not what they would do. (not that you are likely to know them anyway). If you are under 18, go away, since I donít like to get in trouble. If you are turned off by perversion, what are you doing at ASSTR? In other words, go away. If none of this applies to you, great! Read on! Have fun! Let me know what you like!
Oh, and I work hard on my writing...so guess what? Itís mine. Thatís right boys and girls...itís copyrighted...so if you want it? Just ask...weíll talk.
It was chilly, even for March. She shifted the backpack over her shoulder, cold making it ache more than usual. She cupped her bent fingers and brought them to her mouth, thankful for the puffs of warm air. The lack of sun didn't help, but it was important to do this properly--at sunrise.
The trail ahead rose up considerably. Gulls and cormorants swooped in the salt-teased mist, waking to the half-light of dawn. She trudged up the steep incline, as she had done with him hundreds, no, thousands of times before. It was their place.
She could see the salt mist roses at the base of the rise. Their bare, thorny canes had just begun to blush with the early spring sap. She blushed once too, many Springtimes ago. She smiled. He used to pick big bunches of the pink and white blooms, presenting them to her with a flourish. He would pick off the petals and shower her unclothed body with them. Salt mist roses. She used to blush anytime she smelled them. Her cheeks warmed. Maybe she could still blush. She closed her eyes, fighting back a tear. Perhaps it was too soon.
A gust curled the mist against her cheek, waking her back to the present. She tucked a loose strand of salt and pepper hair behind her ear. A wooden bench, crackled and worn from weather, still marked the zenith overlooking the sound. She tugged on the backpack making sure it was secure. Looking over the edge, she could see the pink granite jumbling down, the large boulders creating a set of giant's stairs leading to the tidal pools.
They had chased each other on the boulders, hopping from one to the other, balancing on the precipices. Once, she had fallen. A misjudgment that landed her in the frigid waves. Her clothes had gotten soaked down to her skin, outlining her nipples. She remembered how the sight had affected him. Now the memory drew her hand to her breast, surprised at its puckered response.
She sat, snuggling the backpack against her side. Absently, she rubbed her shoulder and looked out over the water to the changing sky. The mist danced, weaving here and there, yet not eclipsing her view of the sunrise. The lighthouse out in the sound flashed its light, and it made her smile.
The sky changed; grew. Layers of teal and turquoise turned to pale lavender and pink. The sun peeked over the horizon and the sky changed again, this time to orange. It reminded her of the Tequila Sunrises they used to drink. Finally, the sun pushed its way into the sky, bleaching the color from its canvas.
His voice. In her head. She wasn't ready but she listened. She picked up the pack and slowly made her way down to the largest boulder jutting out into the sound. The same one she'd fallen off when they were young.
The climbing took longer, her body refusing to do the same things it had done when she was twenty or even forty. She crept along the tumbled rocks, still familiar after so many years, until she reached the edge of the water-worn boulder. She closed her eyes. The cold salt spray kissed her face, and she shivered.
Carefully, she opened up the pack. She reached inside and pulled out a simple wood box, her first anniversary present. He'd carved it himself, with roses on the lid. She raised her hand to test the wind. The chill of the air wrapped around her, stalling her. But only for a moment. She removed the top and the wind stirred the dust, lifting it up and spreading it over the waves.
"Goodbye, my love." She whispered into the mist. It didn't take long. She strained to see the last of the dust as the breeze carried it away. When there was nothing left, she remembered the box. Her worn fingers traced along the rose before carefully returning it to her pack. Huddling over her pack, she felt something on her neck, a warm breath. She straightened. There was nothing but the dawn's swirling mist.
But he was there.
She suddenly warmed. The swirling mist swaddled her. The swirls were visible against her arm, her cheek, her breast. She closed her eyes and smelled salt roses. She felt the warmth around her, touching her, caressing all the places he would pay special attention to. The scent grew stronger and she felt the warmth against her lips, a whisper soft touch of goodbye. She raised her hand to her lip, her eyes glimmering with unshed tears in the morning light. She looked out over the sound.
And she smiled.
© Dryad (email@example.com) 2004