She’s in her nightdress, locked out, slippers slapping on stones. He’s in his father’s sweatshirt, barefoot in sand, bravely searching the shore. Between them wild grass blowing in the wind, separates sea from sky.
Their gazes meet. He cries, embarrassed, pretends he’s not really afraid. She blames salt in the air.
“Let me call you a locksmith,” says the neighbor swiftly retrieving his errant son. “Want a coffee while you wait?”
Then she sits with the wide kitchen table separating them, till the child climbs in her lap. “Will you be my Mommy?” He’s holding her keys in his hand.