It was at the light house; the light house at the end of the sandy beach where he left the tarnished bottle of Merlot. The letter, slightly torn, was placed delicately inside and concealed with the remnants of the cork she had playfully thrown at him upon opening the bottle. It was one of her favorites, slightly expensive, but rich with a varietal blend of grapes that made her delightfully flirty and intoxicated by his arguable sense of humor. They had shared the bottle just to celebrate the simplicity of living and being able to breathe the mystery of the salty sea air.
They had met by chance. She was running along the compact beach, merely an inch or two away from the waves that threatened to engulf her within their hefty arms. He had been fishing that early morning, not because he wanted to, but because it was ritual. He and his father had done it since he was a little boy, and he could not find the heart to abandon his father's passion. It had been a year that very day, that his health deteriorated and took away his last breath.
He could see the outline of her body, slim, yet muscular, through the rays of sunshine that kissed her ivory skin. She appeared happy, lost within the rhythmic trance of her steady heart beat and the slight pounding of her feet. Her hair, loosely held in a ponytail moved gracefully with each of her passing strides. He remembers casting the line out into the ocean, careful not to stare. Politely, she nodded as she ran past him, revealing an enticing aroma of lavender, perhaps from the perspiration leaving her pores. Her smile, was that of a movie star, bright and undeniably welcoming. He responded by waving and smiling back at her.
He was certain that there are very few moments where beauty truly stops the blood from pumping through ones heart. And as she ran past him that early June morning, he knew that he was in trouble of losing himself within the layers of her beauty.
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