They'd grown apart. Well, hell—at least that meant they were still capable of growing. If they could still grow, then maybe they could grow back together.
And as they gave themselves to each other on the smooth, cedar-scented planks, they made something older than time and newer than tomorrow. They made love—pure, fresh, timeless, and true.
Writing is a lot like making soup. My subconscious cooks the idea, but I have to sit down at the computer to pour it out.
