He glides softly, gently, to the left over the black.
She makes cupcakes, and grilled vegetable stacks, which they eat after the cupcakes.
She hears the waves in the night through her bedroom window, each one sounds like a car pulling into the driveway. She moves past anger, to worry, and then back to anger. Each crash is not a car; each wave is not a door opening.
The rain makes her tears worse; the lowering sun burns her eyes. The wind shifts, he changes his direction over the black.
She tries to ask him why but the anger changes her words. He tries to explain why but his words are slurred and come out in the wrong order.