They are sitting close together, in a room of people, drinking, talking. Stupid conversations, about nothing important. About nothing at all.

She has tiredness in her eyes, as she moves closer to him. Reaches her arms around him, rests her head on his chest. He barely moves, barely flinches, never stops talking.

She holds onto him just a little tighter.

He reaches across to her, eventually. Rubs her forehead with his knuckles, and shoots her a brief smile. It's like she's barely there at all. And the contentment that I saw in her eyes, the love, is still there...its just shifted, ever so slightly.

He hasn't noticed.

They are random strangers, walking down this costal towns main road. Wearing shorts, and skirts. She's wearing a thin woolen cardigan, keeping out the early morning chill. The sunlight reflecting brightly from the ocean promises that it won't be needed for all that much longer.

She reaches out her left arm, wraps it tenderly around his waist. His arm remains against his side...doesn't move at all. He keeps on walking, fixated on elsewhere. I wonder where that place can be, because there's nothing better on this costal street, than the contact she gives.

I'm somehow more aware of my own hands, firmly planted in my pockets.

We're all back in our room, getting ready for a barbeque dinner. She's far too quiet, he's too preoccupied with joking with his friends to notice. Before long, we're all down at the barbeques, standing in the teeth of a cold gale, pumping dollar coins for heat, twenty's for a bit of light. She's the only one not with us.

Sitting alone on her bed, she's retreated into the quiet and warmth, the solitude, as she writes. And I wonder, whether he's ever read a word she's written, and appreciated. Or simply laughed off something he doesn't understand.

She barely says two words for the rest of the night. He carries on...nothing's wrong.

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