"Marry me, Marylin," he said, with all the hubbub of the ocean about
them.
She reached for some foam that hissed out before she could touch it.
"That's you," he said. "Now you are there, and now you aren't."
"I wish," she said--"oh, Getaway, there's so much I wish!"
"What do you wish?"
She looked off toward the immensity of sea and sky. "I--Oh, I don't
know! Being here makes me wish--Something as beautiful as out there is
what I wish."
"Out where?"
"There."
"I don't see--"
"You--wouldn't."
And then, because neither of them could swim, he began chasing her
through shallow water, and in the kicked-up spray of their own merriment
they emerged finally, dripping and slinky, the hairs of his forearms
lashed flat, and a little drip of salt water running off the tip of her
chin.
Until long after the sun went down they lay drying on the sand, her
hair spread in a lovely amber flare, and, stretched full length on his
stomach beside her, he built a little grave of sand for her feet.
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