On the Breeze
by Hilary Robertshaw
The wind whipped at their clothes as they sat on the bench looking out to sea. Her hands clasped in her lap told of a distance between them. He watched her profile, fascinated by the pulse in her neck. He wanted to touch it, to press his lips against it and feel the life force within her.
“I want to make love with you.” Her voice a whisper. He willed her to look at him but her gaze was firmly fixed on the setting sun.
“You can't want that.”
She bit her lip and he thought she was going to cry. “But I do.”
She turned to him the full force of her desire written on her face. He looked back until he could stand the torture no longer then he closed his eyes against her.
The memories flooded back, furtive hand holding, stolen moments in the back of his car, secret lunches, then the final consummation on white sheets, the sea breeze, this sea breeze, toying with the curtains and cooling their bodies.
“We got our fingers burnt so badly,” he said lifting her hand and lacing their fingers together. Her other hand touched his face making him return his gaze to hers.
“It's different now. We kept our promises, we denied each other but we're free now.”
“But so very old.” A smile sparkled in her eyes. Forty years had been kind to him.
“Yes, my love, but we're not dead yet.”