It was Easter morning when the two of them first met. 
She was hanging stuffed animals above the Ring Toss, and he wandered over to lend a hand.
She was tall and blonde, with high cheekbones. He was thin and awkward, with unkempt hair.
The promenade was desolate that morning … desolate enough that one could hear the crack and whoosh of newly-assembled rides being tested; cool enough that one could feel the chill of mist from the midway flume.
She passed him notes from the Ring Toss that afternoon. He cracked jokes to keep from seeming insecure. She gave him her number, and a few days later he called her from a pay phone. Her sister answered, explaining she wasn’t home. He went to look for her, much like she had gone to look for him. They found each other on the boardwalk. He invited her back to his apartment.
Once there, they talked for three long hours, ignoring the shadows as they stretched – and slowly faded – along the far side of the room. He walked her home along Atlantic Avenue that evening. He asked if she would come and visit him again the following night.
On the second night they kissed. Her arms felt warm around him, and her hair smelled fresh like apples.
In the days that followed, he would come to her house, very often late, after her father and her sisters had fallen asleep. She would wait for him along a porch, where the two of them would talk. He would explain the tense relationship that he had shared with his father. She would explain the tension that had accompanied growing up as a child of divorce.
In her, he saw the prospect of settling long inside that town. In him, she saw the prospect for escape.
Certain mornings, he would appear outside her bedroom window, urging her to wander off and watch the sunrise. Certain nights the two of them would walk along the beach at dusk. It was a fleeting time, beset with caution. The two of them were falling in love.
Day 223