The Last Romantics

by Tara Conklin

JOE AND LUNA drive south, following the coast until they reach a new beach, a narrow strip of South Florida sand that isn’t packed with tourists, where no radios ricochet noise, no volleyballs arc skyward. It is high tide, and Luna bends to retrieve a shell, a slice of small white conch that forms a ring. She slips it onto her finger. “Joe, look!” she says, and puts out her hand for him to see. With the solemnity of a prince, he bends and kisses it. At the far end, they scramble over an outcrop of tall, slippery rock. Here they are alone on the sand. The sun beats down, and Joe builds a tent of sorts from their two towels and a battered fishing pole he finds on the ragged tide line. In the small triangle of shade, Joe traces a finger across Luna’s tan stomach. A circle. A figure eight. A heart. She lies back, and the feeling is of a creature, smooth and cool, looking for a home in her skin.