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He thrust his right hand out toward me. "Glad to meet you, Molly."I laughed again, and we shook hands. He didn't let go, and instead, pulled me toward him, embraced me, and kissed me again. The smoke alarm went off (no, not from the kiss; the pan of bacon grease was still on the burner), and he busied himself removing the battery while I took the pan off the stove. We were laughing hysterically, and when we finally had everything out of the panic mode, he kissed me yet again, then scooped me up in his arms and carried me back into the bedroom.He had been wearing the same bath towel I had put on the night before, but we made short work of it, as well as the slinky robe that I had taken such pains to arrange just right. His hands were really very adept, despite their size, at making intricate little caresses and pinches and squeezes. He was incredibly strong, and I made no resistance as he positioned my legs apart for the access he wanted. He had the strangest little thing that he did. A few curious seagulls loitered about, hopeful for some crusts of bread. But the only thing she had in her hand was a small white envelope, which she gripped more tightly than she intended. She didn’t feel angry, and she didn’t feel sad. Those were mere words, concepts that didn’t resonate in her soul. Maybe it was a sacrifice worth making – she could not feel joy, but neither could she hurt. There was only emptiness. And emptiness feels like nothing. She had lived near that beach for more than two years, and all of that time had been with the easy-going night watchman who seemed to think she could be a different kind of woman. He said he loved her, and he probably meant it. But she couldn’t love him. She could fuck him, she could play with him, and she could enjoy the warmth of his body next to hers at night. But she couldn’t love. It wasn’t even love that prompted her decision to leave. She wasn’t trying to protect him or spare him any pain. Sure, it would hurt him when she.
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