She walks along the beach, her hair in long knots behind her. Out into the ocean, she looks. Then back down to her bare feet on the cold sand. Her notebook held closely to her chest.
Do it. She thinks. She contemplates giving in to the urge to toss the pages into the water. To lose them forever. To feel exhilarated for a moment, and then to feel despair after it becomes real.
She won’t do it, of course. She holds the pages tight and looks out into the water. The wind takes her hair to the side, then around her face. But the pages don’t move. The book is closed, secured in her crossed arms. But, just a little…
She unlocks her arms and holds the book in her hands. The cover flaps open, the pages flip, taunting her.
She catches a word on a page. Why that word? July. She remembers July. He was here in July.
The pages turn again in the wind, and July is lost. She tries to flip back to it, but the pages move on without her. The wind dies.
Just. She lands on just. Just what? Just her and him. Just a short time ago in July. So quickly it became just her. So quickly July came and went, and he went with July, like pages in the wind.
She stands on the jetty. A small pock on the ocean’s shore.
The book releases from her hands. The pages turn.