When she puts feet to sand the cold shoots through her teeth. This is not sand. This is snow. The snow sits heavier than other snows, and like the bored bits of glass that have resigned themselves to being pushed around by the persistent tide it makes patterns out of itself, doodling in margins, la la la, I can’t hear you, untouchable to the abuse.
The snow steals her footprints as she walks, sandals in one hand, the other tense and braced against the frigid air. She thinks she hears the sound of the ocean but this ocean does not move. It is frozen at the first point of a wave’s fall.
In the moments before she orgasms, she laments the brevity of the stupid thing and tells herself before it even happens that it will not be enough, that she will want this again, that she needs more. In the final moments of ecstasy she mourns impending death, as she loudly tells the newlyweds which one of them will first be without the other.
After it’s over, she rarely still wants it.
She pours herself more than what she wants and she drinks it all anyway.