Abigail M. Schilling

We were standing on the beach in Santa Barbara. It was night, dark night in the winter when the earth is farthest from the sun (at least, that's what I always heard) and we didn't have any lights because we were breaking the sunset rule.

We had intended to be there at sunset but the wait at the restaurant had been long and you were telling that story and even though I had been there also I was so enthralled that I decided I'd rather listen. You were a little mad that I had made that decision without you; you after all liked the sunset better than your voice.

You leaned in and I suddenly realized you were going to kiss me. I should have been expecting it what with the dinner and the almost sunset and all but I pulled away. It probably looked like a dance; you leaning in and me leaning back and I was so surprised. I had been so ready.

You looked at me. I grinned just like I grinned when you were mad about the sunset. You laughed. And then I kissed you. You stopped laughing and I stopped grinning and the force of the moon that does whatever it does to the tide reminded me that sometimes things are exactly how you picture them even if you have to break into the beach and have to sit near the kitchen and have to put up with me making you tell that story one more time.