The archaeologist, her hands red with earth, finds our words buried deep within dust and dirt. They have slipped so far into the soil; they are almost archaic.
He knows I want to talk about you - that I've been thinking about you the whole time. He can sense your ghost lying at my side in the grass.
I slip away from everyone at the B&B and sneak down the beach road, bare-foot with sandals in hand, to the sand dunes for a sly cigarette.