She stirred and reached for Marina, found her still asleep.  Just because she could, Jenny wanted to wake her.  The thought oddly amused her.  Shrugging the sheet from her shoulder, Jenny sat up and quietly pulled herself to her feet.  And nearly fell.  She was absolutely not a morning person.

Jenny peered at her bag through the fall of her hair, pulled whatever clothes she could find between the teeth of the zipper and put them on as she worked her way to the kitchen.  Cloudy eyes squinted out of the room’s dominant window and Jenny felt strangely attracted to the blue skies and the even bluer water.  She didn’t remember opening the door and running to the call of the sand, but that’s exactly where she was.

The hem of her pants folded beneath her bare foot and Jenny tripped, landing on her *****.  Right where she belonged, she thought.  Jenny sat there for what she knew was hours, her knees drawn up to her chin.  The sway of the ocean hyponotized her, slowed her breathing.

She envisioned floating on her back until she reached lands she didn’t know, was greeted in languages she couldn’t speak.  The distant bang of a screendoor made her head turn, but the woman drifting closer made her heart lurch.  Marina wore tan pants only a few shades darker than the sand beneath them, made of a thin, breathable linen.  A white ribbed tank hugged her body; her nipples strained against the cotton material.  Dark waves tumbled, flipped down her shoulders, pushed back from her face.

Jenny was forced to turn away.  Her self control wavered.  It was all she could do not to throw herself at Marina. 

Marina sat beside the smaller woman, placing a paper plate of ripe, sliced melon and tiny cheese sandwiches in the space between. “I made us lunch,” she said. Her voice softened. “I thought you would be hungry.”

“I am, thank you,” Jenny murmured, taking one of the miniature sandwiches. “*****, I’ve been saying that a lot lately, huh?”

 ”It’s something one can never hear enough of,” Marina laughed wryly. They soon grew quiet, basking in full stomachs and companionable silence. Jenny finished the last of the canteloupe, her tongue already missing its mellow sweetness.