He slides his fingers out of her, wetness like honey in the comb and a soft moan; her cheek turning into the crisp hotel pillowcase, into a dream. She curls around sleep like she's guarding something precious, her calves a cross, her wrists a wall before her eyes. Closing him out as he leaves her bed.

Water from the tap and he stands in the bathroom doorway, cooling, marveling at her outline curved blue in the glow from her laptop's screen. At his thirst, at the sand still in his mouth. If he dies without walking on another beach he won't mind; today provided sunburn and memory enough. Sam against the wind and C.J.'s illuminated face, all eyes and endless smile. The water vanishing in Toby's throat; just now, he can't see her face.

Pacing toward the brocade curtain, a shield against the cloudless California night. Toward the desk, and the armchair: a place to rest without disturbing her. Leave without waking her.

He reaches to close down her computer. Square of snowy light on his face and chest, a shiver catches him, hand against the screen and his eyes squinting to see words there. Words. He'll read spaghetti boxes, beer bottles, toothpaste labels, any words in front of him, and he's paragraph-deep before he's aware this isn't for his eyes.

A letter. A letter, to a lover.

No gushing, no poetry. Thank God, no sex. A love letter all the same, though; he reads this woman as easily, compulsively, as her words. So. This Marco, from high school--must have been the reunion, she needed someone there to touch her. Sickening intestinal knot of jealousy, then guilt: he has no right. Wishing there were alcohol in his glass. He should stop reading. He can't stop reading.

Scrolling, then stopping his finger on the arrow: she's writing about her father. More good days than bad, still, but; the words so plainly hurt they hurt him, too, as wind-driven sand stings. Naked. Truth. Couldn't stand leaving this to strangers, but her brothers have children, have their own problems. Leaving this heaviness on her shoulders; no one to lift it.

Ashamed of himself and finally ready to rip his gaze away, leaning back, lowering the screen. But in the last flash a last line blazes, bold before it disappears. She has written: I can't blame them. I wish it was different, but there are people here I could never leave. Not completely.

A love letter. He turns, sees her huddled like a pearl among the sheets. The room in total darkness now, yet a brightness lingers on her skin, or in his eyes.

Into the bed, lying careful along its edge, almost holding his breath. Not touching, not nearly, but he can almost feel her heartbeat. Even that's more than he deserves. Lucky to lie near her for the few hours until dawn.

And, until her warm hand closes on his shoulder, never imagining that perhaps she was never asleep at all.