Photo Credit: Christopher Lane Photography. CC-BY-NC-SA.
Photo Credit: Christopher Lane Photography.

“Come here,” I whisper loud enough for her to hear me. She gives me a look and laughs, tilting her head up to the sky.


The bark of the palm tree leaning over the ocean against my hand is hard but smooth. Like the shore’s winds blew away every crack and bump.

“Here,” I pat my lap as I prop myself against the tree.

Mocking a shocked look, she kicks the sand up so it sticks against my wet foot. I stare down for a moment as she comes to settle on my lap. Her hair smells like salt and citrus.

“Look, you can be my feet and—”

“That mustn’t be a good thing.”

I stare at the side of her head from behind.

“Listen,” I whisper into her ear.

“Okay,” she whispers back, “but let you be your own feet.”

I lightly kick her toes. Knocking our legs back and fourth for a moment.

“I’m my foot, and you’re the sand.” I curve around her to see her eyes but she doesn’t look at me.


“And we stick.” She says quickly looking at my eyes, then down at my nose.

“Yes,” I agree.

We sit there, on the tree for a few minutes, letting the soft breeze dry the seawater on our legs.

“You know the sand will fall off you feet eventually,” she mentions quietly.

As we ponder the thought for a few minutes, she suddenly laughs.

“I guess we’ll see then, right?”

I look up at her as she twines her left leg with mine.

“I guess we will.”

I slide off the tree and we both fall into the sand. The sand mingles in her hair even when she gets up, giggles, and tries to comb it out. I laugh at the obscurity of the image.

But I still can’t help brushing the sand out of my own hair and kissing her on the nose.

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