He stood uneasily in front of the darkened ocean, reviewing the steps over in his head. His plan was infallible, must be. Louis Ironson was meticulous, organized, thorough. Especially when it came to sexual escapades. Not in the act, in the act Louis was passionate (occasionally loving), but the difficulty of planning and coordinating partners appealed to his neurotic nature. He was good at it. So this was irrational. The plan was foolproof, as the last few days had proven. So he took a deep breath of cold air and dropped the bag in his hand, pulling out a crisp set of clothes and placing it on the sand. He ripped off the wifebeater and boxers he was wearing stuffing them into the bag and rushed into the sea. Shock. Gasping. Roaring. The water pushed against him, cold and unyielding; soaked, he was violently thrown back against the beach. He winced as he rose, brushing rough sand off. He was clean now, free of sin. The new clothes went on. Bag in hand he strode off towards the house in the distance.
"Hello."
His chest constricted. He had been about to place a tentative foot on the first step up the porch when a shadowy figure had risen from one of the porch chairs. The figure drew near, arms encircling his frozen form.
"I went for a swim" he explained.
"Hmm," a nose nustled at his neck, "Don't lie Lou. You get cagey. It's unbecoming. And I can still smell him."
"How?"
"I don't know. Too many variables. Colored glass. We can't possibly calculate how many grains of sand, in what configuration, through what ocean made it."
Hands pulled his head forward lips met his.
"But we see the end."
"And?"
The two smiled and Prior's hand slid into his boyfriend's. The tender grip began pulling him towards the house.
"Broken, but I like it anyway. That's what makes it special."