We sat on a wild-colored beach towel on the north shore of Tybee Island. To the left were the lights of the port of Savannah. In front, several miles off, was Hilton Head, and to the right lay the open sea. Cargo ships crept into the lane, almost imperceptibly slow. Shell seekers skittered in the sand, chasing their flashlights’ yellow globes.We talked. The months had been long, long, and there was much to say.
I lay back and took in the stars. I sighed, contented. (After half of a fifth of Jameson you don’t even notice the sand fleas.)
A meteor cut across the sky. I saw it, and Maggie didn’t. For a long time we waited vainly for another. She was annoyed.
An hour or so later we broke camp. I took the bottle and the beach towel. We struck out for the beachfront condo I’d rented from my friend Ed. Once back, we dusted off our sandy things and fell heavily on the futon in the living room. I tried to solve my Rubik’s cube but, that far gone, I couldn’t.
In a half-hour more I was asleep.
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