Every Wednesday morning they arrive separately, he with a dignified Airedale Terrier, she with a mutt of undetermined lineage.
Her hair is silvery, his hands gnarled and twisted. They sit close together among the sea oats, shoulders touching while the dogs frisk about.
On chilly days like today, they’ll bring coffee, huddling against the wind, heads bent together. They talk, but the ocean rushes in muffling private words. I spy from afar, making up stories. They’re widowed and alone, married but not to one another . . . . , pretending to be “just friends” exchanging clandestine moments to stave off crippling loneliness.
The sun is on the rise, the ocean reflects blue and green, and the couple in the dunes share looks and intimacy.
I, from my vantage point on the pier, sigh in love . . .