The sand was warm.
The ocean was cool.
The section of the beach was deserted.
Secluded.
Sheltered.
It was unreachable, except for via the ocean; and only then if one knew where to look.
No one could see them.
No one could hear them.
No one knew they were there.
There were no cell phones. No computers. No demands for attention. No dead bodies that needed cutting up. No cases that needed solving.
Nothing at all, but them.
It was as if the rest of the world was absent. Gone. Missing.
It was a sanctuary.
Their sanctuary.
With only the sounds of the waves lapping on the shore, they made love.
Just them, the ocean, the beach, the seagulls, the sun.
No more.
No less.
They both had homes.
But one had a wife.
The other, a mother who was suffering from premature senility.
And a motel would be so sordid. It would signify an affair.
And what they had was not sordid.
What they had was not an affair.
Thus the beach was their retreat.
Their place.
With nothing but the sand, the ocean, the seagulls, the gentle warmth from the sun and one another, they were at peace.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Ducky, Jethro, the sand, the ocean and perfection.