He hadn’t anticipated the smell. The scent of brine and decay hung in the air thickly along the beach. He hoped she would be too distracted by his company to notice the stench. It would be some time before he knew how foolish it was to think a female wouldn’t notice such a detail.
The sand was still warm but he sunk in deep to cooler layers, making a casual stroll more of a plodding exercise. She led him closer to the waterline where the receding tides had left a firmer surface. Not too close, she said, I don’t want to get wet.
She drew next to him, to be heard over the waves. “This is my favorite beach,” she said. “I call it the Marigold Beach because they recorded the album ‘Marigold’ up there.” She motioned towards the hills, an enclave of homes tucked away from the civilians on the beach.
Offshore winds blew hair across her face.