The wind picked up, and blew her hair around her. She swiped at it angrily with one hand, and jammed it down behind her ear, where it didn’t stay long, wrapping itself around her face again. She huddled down into the sketch book on her lap, and pressed hard on the tip of the charcoal pencil in her hand, dragging it roughly across the paper. Shading lightly here, furiously there, she finished the drawing and straightened, glancing out at the grey ocean in front of her.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something. A small dot on the coastline. She turned her head to study it closer. Through the hair blowing by her face, she made out the image of a man, walking along the rocky shore. At first he was appeared dark, a shadowy haze, but as he drew nearer, she realised that it wasn’t all shadow. He was dark in the flesh. He belonged on that beach, with the wind and the grey sea.

She slid the pencil through her fingers, and flipped to the next clean page in her sketch book. Furrowing her forehead, she drew him as he neared her. She drew his long arms and legs, the sloppy cuffs of his pants, his hands in his pockets. She drew the challenging look he gave the ocean, the humble bend of his head to the rocks, the inquisitive half-smile to the crying gulls above him. She noticed the muscular forearms under his shirt cuffs, and she drew them. She even noticed the way his socks didn’t quite match, and she made sure to draw them. She used eight pages of sketch paper in her notepad before he turned and caught her.

They stayed there for a long time, looking at one another. His eyes were deeply sad. His body bent inward like he was sheltering himself from her. She tried to cover the pages on her lap with her arm, but he saw them before she could, and without speaking, drew close to her and slid the sketchbook out from underneath her elbow. He flipped through the pages backward, and left behind the drawings of him quickly. He paused when he reached the ones of the ocean. His eyes changed as he looked at them, from sad to soft, as if he connected with them. He stared at one for a long time, and then turned to her.

His eyes met hers again with more insensity, and he held the sketchbook out to her. She reached out to take it from him, but when she took hold of it, he didn’t let go. They stood there, in a moment of confused connection that neither one of them could explain. Then he let go, and turned, walking back down the beach in the direction he came from. She gasped for breath, as if she had forgotten to breathe while he was holding her gaze. She looked down at the drawing that had so captivated him. In it, the ocean rose violent and dark, and forbidding waves crashed against cliffs of rock. She wondered he saw in it that made him feel differently, as all she saw was rage.

She stood quickly, and called after him, the sound of her voice strangled a little by emotion and thought. "Wait!". He stopped walking, his back still to her, and stood still, a tall, dark column against the wind. She paused a moment, and then continued. "What was it?" He turned finally, his head bent towards the ground, but his eyes peering up at her. She felt completely helpless in that gaze. "What was it," she finished, "that you saw in my drawings?"

He raised his head, his gaze never waivering, and he began to walk back towards her. "Does it matter?" he questioned her once he got closer. "Do you really care?" He stopped in front of her, and took the sketchbook out of her hand. He looked down at the drawing again. "If I tell you what I see, how will that change anything?" He turned towards the ocean again, the book in both hands, and squinting, he looked out into the horizon. Without a word, he took two huge steps, and threw that sketchbook as hard as he could against the wind into the surf. It fluttered through the air and landed with a splash, floating on the surface for a moment before sinking into the frigid water.

When he saw the book sink, he sighed heavily and crouched down, eyes still fixed on the horizon. She stood beside him for a long time, the statement on her face cycling between shock, indignation and resignation. She finally crouched down beside him. He was sliding a smooth pebble through his long fingers, turning it and brushing it with his thumb. "Will I look like this pebble soon?" he asked, and she had no idea of how to answer him. He dropped the pebble, and turned to look at her. "Will we all look like that pebble some day?"

Her mouth opened a little, as if she was going to answer, but she closed it again and sighed instead. Standing, she looked down at him, and shook her head. What had she been thinking when she had called him back? She pulled her sleeves down over her hands, and crossed her arms, and she began the long walk back to her car, leaving him crouched on the beach, staring at the sea.

She sat behind the wheel for a long time, thinking about him and what he had said. She still held the charcoal pencil in her hand, the partner to her now-sunk sketchbook. She held it up for a moment, and, sighing heavily, got out of the car. He was gone when she reached the beach again. She stood for a long time, looking out into the water, and then pitched the pencil in her hand out into the ocean. Angry, she jogged back to her car. The wind began to pick up as she reached it, and her hair whipped around her face as she attempted to find the right key for the door.

She stood there for a minute, attempting to hold her hair back and find the key at the same time, and then suddenly, her hair was swept from her face by lean fingers. She found the right key and put it into the lock, and then she turned around to face him. He let go of her hair as she did so, and she smiled as she watched his hand fall back to his side. "Thank you," she said. He stood there with a queer look on his face, not saying anything. "Can I give you a lift somewhere?" she asked, trying to catch her hair from the wind again so she could see his face properly.

His hands came up again instictively, and caught her hair at the nape of her neck, causing her to be closer to him than she had planned on. When she breathed in, she could smell the salt of the sea on his clothes, and the spicy, clean smell of him. She looked up at him, his eyes avoiding hers, as if he wasn’t entirely sure he should be doing this. She shuffled in a little closer to him. "You didn’t answer my question," she said quietly.

He looked straight at her then, and she leaned in, kissing him softly on the mouth. When she pulled away, that sad look was back on his face. She frowned. Maybe that wasn’t such a good thing to have done, she thought to herself. She looked into his eyes, searching for a sign that he had enjoyed it even a little bit. The deep brown irises that stared back at her were shiny with moisture. His hands loosened themselves from her hair and dropped back down to his sides. He looked as though he might run.

Say something, she cursed inwardly at herself. But she couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t sound utterly innane. She felt herself begin to tear up. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She looked down at her shoes, and backed away, turning so he wouldn’t see her hot, angry tears. She jiggled the key in the lock, and opened the car door. Just as she went to get in, a hand came down on her shoulder. She turned as strong arms came around her, and hers slid around his waist. They stood together as she cried into his shoulder and he stroked her hair, buffering her sobs with his body. Then they stood for a long time after that, just savouring the feel of the other person’s body against their own.

Finally, he moved one arm from around her, and brought it under her chin, tipping it slightly. His lips came down on hers very softly, and the kiss was brief but full of emotion. When he pulled back, he wiped her face with his hand, cooling her hot cheeks with his fingers. She smiled at him, grateful for everything.

He smiled back at her, displaying a row of perfect white teeth. "About that lift..." he said in his smooth voice.

A week later...
She dashed out to pick up her post, and when she came back, he was standing on her doorstep, holding a package. She grinned at him. "What’s that?" she asked. He just shook his head and quirked a corner of his mouth up. His dark curls bounced on his head, and the dark sadness that had enveloped him the day they met had dissipated. She took a quick moment to look him over, and noticed that the cuffs of his pants were rolled up. "Have you been to the beach today?" she tried, but he only smiled wider in response. She stuck the key in the lock, and opened the door. "Would you like some coffee?" she attempted for a final time, and to this, he positively grinned. She leaned against the door as he shuffled past her into the apartment, and she noticed the smell of the salt on his clothes again. And finally, she understood what was in the package, and she grinned as well and closed the door.

The End.