It’s started to rain lightly on you and Paul as you explore the shore. During your semester in Budapest together, you mentioned never having seen the Mediterranean. He bought you both cheap tickets to Greece by selling his mandolin.
An icy wave pools around your bare feet. It’s really raining now.
“Why didn’t you write me?” Paul says from behind you. You turn.
“It’s not over!” he yells into the empty surf, leaning back. His shirt slides up his flat stomach.
“Are you just quoting The Notebook?”
“Stay right there. I’m gonna walk across the beach, and then we’ll run to each other.”
“That’s not even the same movie!” you yell, but he’s already running impressively fast in his wet, black jeans.