driftwood

She took me to the Oregon beach and we burned driftwood and drank cheap wine out of the bottle and watched the darkness creeping in. She fell asleep on my shoulder when the bottle was empty, and I threw it out into the beach and watched the fire burning low. She woke up when I wrapped the blanket around her shoulders.

I told her I'm glad she took me here, and she nodded. "It's my favorite place in the world," she said, and she probably meant it. I said something about how I wished this night would last forever, and she didn't say anything. But there was something sad in her eyes. We spent a week there together. When it was warm we'd sleep on the beach with the blankets and the fire and each other for warmth. When it was too cold we'd walk back to the house we were staying in once the fire burned out, sleeping in our little bed, happy just to be there.

At the end of the week she asked me if I'd always think back on this as a happy memory, and I said I would. "Do you promise?"

"Absolutely."

We slept peacefully that night. She was gone in the morning, and I was alone and cold in the sunrise, trying to find her footprints in the sand. All I found was driftwood leading away from the rocks forever.