Everything was wrong. The yellow September sun, the breeze that breathed up the shores of Cairnholm from the ocean, not cold enough to do more than chill your bare shoulders; it felt like early autumn, yet, in your heart, you knew this picturesque scene was so incredibly wrong.
Alma sat beside you in the warm sand.
“It’s December now, but you’d never know,” you muttered, refusing to meet her gaze. “Nothing has changed.”
She fisted your shirt sleeve. Somewhere down the beach, the children were shouting and playing in the water; you knew you weren’t the only thing on her mind, and far from the most important. With a small tug, she pulled you closer, leaning to place a small kiss on your shoulder.
“Look at me,” she pleaded.
You did so, reluctantly, tears welling up in your eyes. She kissed your lips, slow and gentle, but possessive, dragging you into her lulling push and pull. Alma backed away and you were reminded of a time when you’d never known her touch, stranded and wanting.
“No,” she whispered against your lips. “Everything has changed.”