She watches the moon rise, sun sitting in the back of her throat.
Feet one next to the other, crossed at the ankles. Her dress, blue flower summertime covering knees like hands cover mouths whispering secrets.
The wind blows and she watches you move.
Feet carry you back and forth, rhythmic step across concrete right angled against stucco.
Waves crash in the distance.
You think you hear her say something,
Ask her, What?
Nothing, she tells you.
You ask her why she says that.
She asks you what you would like her to say.
Birds fly, flight sounds mingle with sunset and crashing waves. Sounds of flight marry footsteps.
She lights a cigarette, uncrosses her ankles.
You pull flame from your pocket, she looks at you as if to say, Too Late.
You ask her why she keeps saying that.
She tells you she didn’t say anything.
Crosses her ankles, watching red painted toes play across whitewash and skyline, makes them dance.
Asks if you like dancing.
You tell her you are clumsier with your feet than you are with your heart.
It is the first time you have heard her laugh.
It reminds you of a song you once heard, but that was a long time ago. It wasn’t summer then. It was some other season. Perhaps it was spring, you say.
What was spring, she asks.
You tell her it was a time you heard a song that sounded the way she laughs.
She asks you what sort of song it was, was it a love song, she wants to know.
No, you tell her. It wasn’t a love song.
What other kinds of songs are there? she says
You tell her you don’t know.
You hum along this time, watching her toes keep time with the sea and the sunset.
You ask her name.
Watch her lips move to the sound of crashing waves.
What, you ask?
Nothing, she says.
She always says that.