Dominic & Francois. By the Sea.

By the Sea

Dominic and Francois were kissing on the deck.

''Dominic,'' Francois giggled, ''stop?''

''No.'' He responded, grinning eagerly, his laughter lines curled. The man was in his late thirties. The girl herself, a mere nineteen years old. It was 1923, a few years after the war; and Dominic was visiting Francois' father on business. They had met a week ago, and it had been a whirlwind romance ever since.

''Dominic,'' Francois giggled, thinking of her father, and her arms kept him momentarily at bay, ''stop!''

''No!'' He said, chasing after her, locking her down. And with girlish laughter, Francois fell over on the deck and landed on the floor.

The beach was red-purple. It was near-sunset, and the tide was lapping in. At their backs, a cottage house, two stories tall, sat snugly in the crest of the surrounding cliffs. It was painted pearl blue with pink stripes, and like all other Cornish townhouses had a delicate front garden and a long driveway. It was like something out of a midsummer dream.

Dominic was gazing out at the ocean with calm, clear eyes; until his irises turned ocean blue, the water there breathing into foam, fading like his laughter lines into the edge of his subconscious.

''Dominic...?'' Francois said, led on her back, a halo of hair around her head, her bloomers exposed, small hands ruffled in her skirts. She was watching him quite carefully, her girlish mind running ten miles a minute.

''Mi amor?'' He responded, though he did not turn from the ocean. His hand gently caressed her own. He seemed to be thinking at length.

''Will you tell my father about us...?''

''I'll make you a deal, my love.'' Dominic said firmly, and he came and climbed across her. Francois gasped with each touch of his body, yearned for each touch of his skin. He was very particular about how he held her, being modest, but that only seemed to make her more longing. In the end, he came and loomed over her like the heavy shadow of the sun itself, blocking out the last of it's grains; his perfect, chiseled face and sallow, dark eyes teasing her own.

''If it rains seashells in the next five minutes, then perhaps.''

A glass of water shot forwards, drenching Dominic's head. He let out rough, barren laughter; his voice split with sarcasm and amusement as Francois wiggled out from under him, huffing.

''You really must not play games!'' She told him, hurrying across the deck and towards the ocean. She looked very cross. Her skirts flared around her ankles like delicate little knives as she stood there with her arms folded.

Dominic sighed, rolling onto his side, and mopped at his face with a handkerchief. It was then he saw her staring at him, and he was forced to do the same.

Francois was stood at the end of the deck, the sun going down behind her. The sky was crackling with red and purple clouds, and her small, green eyes were twinkling in the dusk.

''Do not cry, my love...?'' Dominic said at once, his own eyes burning. He stood at once, stumbling towards her. And shivering, and whimpering, she looked up at him. Her little hands started to move for his.

''Do not cry—?''

Suddenly, Dominic's eyes lifted over her shoulder as he came and took her hands, and a shadow fell across his face.

''Dominic. You play it so cool! But my father, he will not understand; I am just... and you, so much older... and we... the love I have for you is so... and... Dominic? Dominic! Are you listening to me?''

Taking her head, Dominic forced her to look at the horizon.

A shrill gasp left Francois' lips. Her hands slapped against her mouth.

Across the sea, seashells were thudding into the water. Slowly, with the deck their vantage point and shelter, they both leaned out and watched. They were landing in the sand as well. Bright, colorful seashells; some of them green, some of them blue, but almost all of them red. From here, they looked like small hearts; the kind you'd see on the fourteenth of February, for St. Valentines. Dominic's eyes widened, stunned. But Francois merely clutched her mouth, leaning back into Dominic's arms.

''You said....''

''... I did.''

''The shells....'' They said together, at last.

And with a scrolling beam of headlights from the front patio of the seaside house, and the abrupt clattering of a car engine, Dominic glanced over his shoulder; and his eyes seemed to shine with a sense of dawning realisation.

It was in that moment that Francois truly saw Dominic. He turned to her slowly and bowed; as she stood there in awe and amazement. He then turned and went inside to greet her father. And as her small hands fell to rest upon her skirts, she knew, as she watched the back of the man, that he would not falter; he would ask for her hand in marriage, and by the end of today, she would be his.

Seashells clattered against the roof of the deck as Francoise stood there, fussing with her hands.

Francois climbed down from the deck at last, her small hand skirting the railing, her heart beating very fast in her chest, and went to find a shell. For tonight, she would be engaged. She would spend the last few minutes of her single life here, collecting shells. As she knew, as soon as she returned to the cottage, her father would sit her down and ask her if this was what she truly wanted.

Picking up a red shell, she turned it over in her hands and clutched it to her chest.

It was shaped like a heart.

''... It is, father. He is,'' she told her father fifteen minutes later. They were in the kitchen. Her father smiled, leaning back in his chair, and spotting the shell — he abruptly broke into gorgeous laughter.

''Very well then, my love. I bless this union. You are engaged!''