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It was warm, even for June, and the water was low. A violet sky was streaked with silver and yellow. They walked along the shore without holding hands

They were both in good health, not millionaires, but they were comfortable. They kept their vows. They did everything the way you’re supposed to. 

They used to confide. They used to look at each other. Now they came home, ate dinner. Went to bed and looked at the ceiling

It came through the cracks, it crept in under the door. You tried to take it in hand and it ran through your fingers

They walked along the shore and the water was low. Too black to be rock, too smooth to be stone, it had come to rest in the weeds. It was square, about a foot deep. They lifted the top with their fingertips

They waited, and soon they heard sirens. Flashbulbs popped like giant fireflies, radios crackled. The officer wrote down their names, where they lived.

It was late, and the sky was silver and black, colors of reckoning. They went home. Said goodnight and stared in the dark

They did everything right and it crept through the weeds .

So cold. Even for June.

So small.

He reached for her hand.