Sand Between My Toes

I hobble to the point where the last wave broke to rinse the sand from between my toes. Shoes and socks in my left hand, my right free to pick away the grains when the water rolls in.

The wave breaks. I fumble at my foot well enough and stretch the sock over the cold clean skin. Then straight down into its trainer, almost overbalancing as I plunge it into the hole.

I look up from the sea. Moira is lying on a hotel towel, just over fifty yards away, peaceful, probably asleep, a single still presence in the bedlam of the weekend beach.

Tonight I will ask her to marry me.

A second wave breaks.

I hadn't moved my foot. My shoe is filled; my sock is sodden.