There isn’t much to write about on my end. So I decided to try an exercise where you take an opening sentence from a story and run with it.
So I grabbed an opening line from one of William Faulkner’s stories and wrote about a couple I saw on a recent retreat with my wife.
Through the [concrete noun], between the [adjective] [concrete noun], I could see them [verb ending in
Through the mirror, between the soft kisses, I could see them touching. She looked to be twenty years his junior. He enjoyed her company. He liked the way she made him feel. He was on vacation, even if only for a weekend. She was slightly more reserved than him, but not enough to see without studying her actions. His chair turned so that he faced her, and he could not keep his hands off her. Gently he would rub her arm or her thigh. He spoke low and often leaned in to whisper to her. She could not defend herself from being flattered.
Only one seat separated me from him. He asked the bartender for a menu. I said, “You can have mine. I’m through looking.” A thirty dollar salad was not appetizing. I slid it over toward him. He took it without as much as a glance to me. He said something to the effect as “very good” or “very nice.” Not a thank you, nor an acknowledgment. He swiveled his chair to face her again, and they both hovered over it, heads inches apart.
I saw them again the next morning at the pool. In the middle of the water, they bobbed together, head and shoulders sticking out of the water, like two solitary islands in an ocean. He held her close. He thought the pool hid his hands, but they were visible, magnified by the water as they both rested and moved over the curves of her buttocks. Again and again they would kiss. Again he would whisper to her. And yet again, like the evening before, he could not keep his hands off her. And yet again, like the evening before, she could not defend herself from being flattered.
I am sure he was married, only not to her.