Soon there is the sense of liquid running under her heels, lapping silently in an impatient rush against the shiny lacquer. So much reminds her of the crashing waves, lately.
Her eyes close in a blink, and suddenly his young hand is making chaste pilgrimage over the petite mounds of her breasts, where they hang well beneath the blue blue blouse- juicy grapes draped on a vine out of any fox’s reach, if they want any good should come to them. His digits tangle on the hem, resting for a moment near the cried-upon ruff; but he regains himself, and she squirms as his dusty palm flattens between her two hearts.
Death throes, then, and soon after, not even the Ring she slipped back on his finger remains.