Mary ran down the hill to the beach. It was warm and raining and happy there, and they were happy there, sitting on the wet sand in their wet clothes. Shirts and shorts damp like the channel would have been, from the rain, if water didn't already start out that way.
There were oranges. Mary didn't usually like oranges, but that wasn't the point, this time. This time, Mary liked oranges. Not as much as the sand and the rain, but she liked eating oranges there. They were eating oranges together. Maybe it was the last time.
Mary didn't have very many options that day, if it were to be the last time. She could say she wanted to go swimming. She could say they wouldn't want to just sit there on the sand the whole time, what with the water right there. It wouldn't be convincing and she would go out alone, swimming farther than she should, farther than was safe . . .
But Mary had read so many books where someone tried that and it didn't work out, the water was too placid, or the couldn't go far enough, or they backed out, it was too easy to change your mind. Maybe the other way was better. There were rocks around, she could suggest they take a nap, the body . . . there was plenty of brush back in the woods. She could use it to hide the body.
Mary hated the pulpy texture of oranges, the way it stayed there, the empty orange flesh, after the juice and the flavor was gone. It sickened her, but it would have been rude to spit it out.
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