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Behind her, the house is dark as a monolith, though soon its seaward-facing windows will swell with light.
A riot of flowers on the table, the tick-tock of the sea, candlelight glazing their faces.
her body would say to him the things that words could not—and
The signal was given; the swimmers mounted the blocks. As one, they bent at the waist, fingertips skimming their toes.
Her boy was in the third lane. A long subsurface glide and he emerged.
