Moths lit up the sky. There wasn't a moon.
He could swim, with his one arm. She with her two.
His skin was salty. Hers too.
He left no footprints in sand, no ripples in water, no image in mirrors.
She could have touched him with her fingers, but she didn't.
They just stood together.
Still.
Skin to skin.
A powdery, coloured breeze lifted her hair and blew it like a rippled shawl around his armless shoulder, that ended abruptly, like a cliff.
Sumptuous prose - an excerpt from The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy
Painting: Evening Walk on the Wild Beach, (Pors ar Villec), Locquirec, Brittany
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