"Ya know," he rocked back in the wicker chair made weak by years of the sultry ocean air, "I used to write her poetry." His eyebrows raised in the vagueness and his eyes wandered absently.

The placid expression on her bronzed face hid the exasperation behind it - a facade erected to prevent her own emotions from blubbering up to the betraying eyes.

"Nothing really good. I can't write. At least no one ever told me that," he rubbed his upper lip with his forefinger and touched his chin,"I could.""

She shifted on the peeling railing and considered flicking off a dangling chip of white paint. Realizing he was looking at her, the edges of her mouth flickered upward with practiced understanding.

He rubbed the rotting, wooden porch floor with his bare toes. And kicked the air with a pff sound. "Poetry" he mocked himself. His eyes wandered out to the breathing ocean and a gull floating on the breeze above it.

She took in a quick breath, as if to say something. Then paused. "Poetry," she nodded.n