English Channel
He could see her standing in the water, shimmering legs and hips. She slipped in after the last turn, at 950 yards, and now he hammered to her, turning liquid in to solid. He tagged the wall and kissed the graceful hull of her left breast. She told him the time. Too fast with five more left.
"That's one," she said.
He could taste her in the sunset. They swam to every bar on the beach and back, emerald water embracing her like a chapel. The ocean polished and formed her. Her smile could drown and raise a thousand cities. They kissed deeply in the soft waves as they left the first bar.
"That's one," she said.
He could feel her between the waves. A month after their son was born, he towed them in a small boat across the bay and back. That night, as the child slept in a crib beside them, she pulled him to her, whispering how she loved to make babies. She touched the boy's face and stroked it lightly.
"That's one," she said.
He could hear her with his breath. They had removed as much of the cancer as they could. He ached from the morning session, harder than intended, and he didn't care. She made him promise he wouldn't stop. The inital chemo had just ended when he saw her, too small in her room.
"That's one," she said.
He could smell her on the tide. Their son shouted at him from the escort boat. He lifted his head to sight the beach and saw her beaming. He turned liquid in to solid and stumbled on to France. After kissing the air where he saw her, he knelt, slapped the beach and waded in to the welcoming tide.
"That's one," he said.