I am sunburnt, candy cane striped from afternoon beach combing without a single cloud overhead. This is the summer we will blame for my future skin cancer.
B— is making noises in his sleep that are hard to explain. He snores if his head is propped, makes chittering jibberish when I remove one of his pillows. He "swam" in a tide pool today. He thinks he's king of the world; I do too. Before he fell asleep he thanked me for the hundredth time for bringing him here. He says he's so used to this place he doesn't miss home.
L— is wide awake. I can hear the fold out sofa creak beneath her insomnia. She pointed out the convergence of Jupiter and Venus in the sky above the sunset this evening. We walked the length of beach taking photographs in front of the surf until the light ebbed and she begged cold at 9:30 p.m.
M— finally said goodnight to her boyfriend and logged off of Skype 20 minutes ago. She's given over to the melatonin. We probably won't rouse her until 3 p.m. tomorrow.
E— hasn't called. I trust he's alright or I would have heard otherwise. I miss him.
I miss my husband too, although we chatted for at least an hour, face-time via Facebook messenger. I miss having him at home in our bed. I miss when he could hold me in both arms. I miss being able to think that maybe someday we would walk along a beach somewhere, anywhere, hand in hand.