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May 26, 2005

Michele: Washed Up

They clutch and roll, ignoring the sand creeping into their clothes, the wind biting at their faces. They kiss, full of fire, and he reaches for her pants, tugs at the waistband.

A glassy wave crashes against the pier and the sound shoots a vision into her head: a capsized ship; artifacts sinking to the bottom of the ocean, trailing an SOS of bubbles that never make it to surface, an anchor settling into a bed of mud and tangled seaweed. The wave collapses, the shore sucks it back, the ocean sighs.

She untangles herself from him and walks away.

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