Jogging along the ribbon of blonde sand, he was grateful for the gulf and majestic sky.

There were only vague, soundless characters scattered on the coast.

In the softened distance a lone figure was smudged on the scenery. He could make out her muted pink dress. She was at the water’s edge, moving north towards West Beach.

Arriving at her side he slowed and bent towards her. Then he reached for the closest shoulder. He kissed her cheek—exquisite, familiar—and was moved in a profound, unspoken way.

She murmured that the morning suited her, that she should come here more often.

He reminded her of the unseasonal winter’s day, a few years’ back, when they did this before work.

She smiled, a kind nod to their memory.

Yes, he said, August—just before the Josh Pyke concert.

He returned to his jog and stretched away from her. The water receded some more with the moon’s fading gravity.

It was the briefest of exchanges, a sliver of chat. But it was connective and affectionate. As he pushed away, she offered tender encouragement after him, before laughing too.

Squaring his shoulders to make erect his carriage, he stared towards the usual turn-around point. It was just beyond a jutting ramp, bordered with rocks.

With the delighted sun vaulting into the incalculable blue, he’d soon return and ease to a walk alongside her.

Again, he would kiss her cheek.