I cannot have her. A thousand miles away she sits on a rock, an ocean cliche, tanned thighs and salt-strung hair. One night she let me kiss her; her eyes were downcast.

That last night, always a last night. Always pheromones or ozone or gravity versus duty and morals and honesty. I stroked her cheek with one thumb. I had not touched her before, but for hand on hand, but I was leaving and courageous as travelers are. Her mouth closed, a tight line. She had been speaking and I didn't listen.

My thumb moved to the stern mouth. She softened, and looked at me once. Coffee wet eyes and so young. As young as I am but naive. I inhaled her expelled breath. She was my height, is my height, but seems smaller; I tasted her delicate lip. She had been drinking chardonnay or pinot grigio something crisp and intoxicating, or she would not be here. I dragged my teeth on her bottom lip, smelled salt and tanning oil, kissed her, the wax of my flesh ran into hers and one note sounded between us. Her voice, I heard it this time, a whisper, gasp, sob, no noise at all but I heard it.

I am leaving and she does not let me kiss her again.

Loss follows duty. Sacrifice. She walks by a wall, and waits in the sun. If I came back she would see me. She would smile and wet her lips and chatter and not look at me. I would not listen to her. I won't go back.