The blonde girl stands and watches the unmoving figure on the beach. The only thing that moves is the girl's dark, dark hair as it lifts with the breeze.
A blonde boy appears from what appears to be nowhere, his steps sinking into the sand, casual and offhand just as he is. His shirt, once a snug fit ripples slightly in the breeze. She looks down at her own shirt, grimy and unwashed and notices how it now sags where her hips are.
The girl looks up at him when he is near and smiles a wide smile at him as he joins her on the sand.
She stares at them for a while, the black of his shirt and the white of hers as they watch the waves pull in towards their feet and pull back out, white tinged tips never quite touching their toes. After a while, she lays her head on his shoulder. They sit like that, demure and unmoving for so long, she begins to feel a pull in her leg and leans against a tree for support.
She's about to leave, when they get up and she stands up straighter, intrigued.
He takes her hand in his and raises it above both their heads, spinning her in a slow circle in the sand and she watches as she tilts her head back, mouth open in a silent laugh as her feet catch a little on the sand. The red-orange of the setting sun catch on their figures, throwing long, sloping shadows into dusty sand. His hands fit snugly at her waist and they shuffle on the spot, heads bent close, but not quite touching like the waves against their toes.
She pushes back the twinge of jealousy (the sun would look better against the blonde on her head). Instead, she thinks of how sickeningly cliché the image before her is.
Leave them alone.
There will be time to fight for him tomorrow. For now, she just watches.
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Done and dusted. I welcome criticism with open arms.