She stood out, alone, by the sand and the surf. The Floridian (or perhaps it was Hawaiian, I forget) surf. The westering sun made it's descent into the now wine-colored ocean, from among a fiery, multihued sky. The waves, topped with outriders of whitish, sapinaceous foam, reeled headlong, careening again and again with the now-grey shoreline. Her feet were as dark brown as the rest of her, and they made slight impressions in the greyish, granular sand. She felt the squishy sensation of the many moist granules of thalassic earth grind deliciously against her olive heel and looked out across the waters, whose roar was deafening as they suicidally collided with the breakwater and the caliginous sandbars. As she gazed out along the waters, her raven hair flowing free and beautiful in the balmy breezes, she thought of someone. Somewhere about two thousand miles distant from her, a tableau of similar proportions and replicated elements was being played out. Except this tableau, while still involving a beach locality, and an ocean view, had a man as it is sole actor, not a woman. And the contrast between the two was massive: for he was as pale as she was dark, and as tall as she was short, and as flaxen-haired as she was jetty. And, naturally, the two counterparts being male and female, there were several other differences as well. But none of that mattered for now they somehow gazed upon the aqueous, vitreous strands of the same exact wave. Yet distance and wind and time and other things separated them, too. And they lamented their cordon in different ways. But still, though their bodies were distant, there was the equalizer of the waves to bring them closer together. Somehow. Yet neither really shed any tears over the thousandfold miles between them-at least, they did not shed them outwardly. Though in truth they could have, for both were alone in their places at the beach. Not even a sandcrab trundled busily yet awkwardly past them. Nothing disturbed them, but that did not give them the ability or prerogative to give full, unbridled vent to the deep sorrow inside of them. The roiling blood and the tempestuous heart of each. Not to mention the moisture, both lachrymal and carnal, inside of them. But, beyond their desiderata was the sea, and whether using it for suicidal, analgesic purposes or not, it was some sort of relaxant to them. Interestingly enough, though so many thousands of miles separated them, and one zone (that of the girl) was rather equatorial and tropical, whereas another one (that of the man) was temperate, wild and cold, even though it was late spring in both areas, but tropicalness resided in both lands. For in the North, along the grassy fringe of the beachhead, lay a few trees, and these were sumac trees, that most elegantly tropical and Middle-Eastern of American plants. Of course, ironically, practically no sumac trees existed in the tropical zone now occupied by the girl of our little, trite story, but otherwise, she was surrounded by tropical profusion present naturally in the palmettos that ringed the hills above where she stood. Both thought, not so much of themselves, but of each other. As they should have. As it should be.
(Note: If anybody actually likes this basically parodic piece of fictional crap that is lampooning romances and mawkish sentimentality, I suppose, if you requested it, I could, I would expand some on the story and add to it. Make it longer-though personally, I think it is long enough. Yet, in a way, a strange way, it is good, too. Perhaps only because of the talent lingering behind it. My talent.)
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