The wind pulls at her blouse, almost as though hands have taken a hold of her and wills the woman to come into its grasp. She shivers.
She doesn't like it in the North, she never has. The winds were always too strong and the mass of water expanding over half of everything too vast. But then again she isn't here for herself, for the ocean, even for the blazing sun. She is here for him. She assumes that not much else matters besides him, or at least she's never let anything else matter. That's how she likes it.
She lets the wind pull her forward three steps before she tries to recover on sinking feet. The sand moves in, drowning her feet in their grains.
It would be unprofessional for her to consider the ebony haired man an attachment. She muses that it must also be unprofessional the way they speak to each other or the way he sometimes looks at her(and especially the way she looks at him). He is her commanding officer, she his right hand man- or in this case woman. And she smiles at the thought of him. All of him, and her mind is placed into melancholy and old memories that are like dreams now.
