Behind the high dunes, the winds die and the sun is just strong enough to warm the sand. She lies with her eyes closed, taking in the shape of the sun through her eyelids. Red glow.

She turns onto her side, the sand falling into her coat, eyes cracking open in the cold shade.

He is visible just over the dune, a strong back in a thin waxed jacket, shaking now with laughter or sobbing. Either way, she is curious and starts to make a story about him. He is laughing – maybe watching his children chase the waves. No, the beach is deserted. She’d just come up from it. He is crying – here contemplating a suicide.

She closes her eyes again and turns onto her back, stretching like a cat. That last thought returns and nags at her. She turns to look at him again, but he’s gone.

She gets up and brushes herself off and climbs the dune, grabbing onto the tall grasses for leverage in the soft sand. She spots him in the next valley splayed out and still.

“Hello!”, she shouts but her voice is carried off by the wind to be drowned by the waves. She runs down the dune, picking up speed and losing control until she falls onto him. The impact makes them both gasp.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” she apologizes as she looks for bullet wounds or signs of bleeding. He’s holding his crotch and moaning. Instinctively – misguidedly - she reaches for it as if to rub it and make it all better.

He looks up into her face, incredulous. Her white hair glows like a halo around her head and she’s rubbing his cock, leaning over him. Not expected. He’d closed his eyes for just a minute. His bewilderment doesn’t stop him from getting hard under her hand. She’s leaning over him, open coat, button down shirt, unbuttoned now quite low enough for him to see her tits.

She feels him now, looking into his face, contorted with pain and pleasure. They’re both so… confused.

This is. This is. New.

But she doesn’t stop. They’re looking at each other. She’s deliberate. He unbuckles, she reaches in. Bites her lip. He grabs her neck. She fumbles at her own pants. He pushes his down. Ripping off what they can of their own or each other’s clothing. Mostly naked, an ankle or wrist still covered. He pulls her on top of him. Sand on his cock. She guides it in anyway. Fuck. Fucking fucking fuck. They’re fucking. Taking turns inadvertently rubbing sand into her clit, along the base of his cock. Doesn’t stop her from bringing her knees up and squeezing her legs and shaking on him. Doesn’t stop him from pushing her off when he cums onto his chest.

They pant. They put on pants.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“I’m not,” he says.

She smiles. He brushes the hair from her cheek.

They back away from each other, walking off down the beach in different directions. The wind blowing the sand off their backs.