BEDDING
Marisol had come to associate the sound of the foghorn with his beautiful brown back. All week they had spent their days swimming in the ice-cold Pacific together, taking time to gather mussels from the rocks at low tide.Their evenings were sometimes very short due to the Albariño’s impact and the relentlessness of the sun upon their salt-dipped bodies. Sun, salt, sun, salt. Every morning as her butterfly lids opened, she struggled to pry her limbs from his to exert a toe from the warm nest of their bed. Ah their bed! It seemed to sit in the room like a lovingly rumpled puppy against pale blue window panes dotted in condensation.
Marisol had come to associate the sound of the foghorn with his beautiful brown back. All week they had spent their days swimming in the ice-cold Pacific together, taking time to gather mussels from the rocks at low tide.Their evenings were sometimes very short due to the Albariño’s impact and the relentlessness of the sun upon their salt-dipped bodies. Sun, salt, sun, salt. Every morning as her butterfly lids opened, she struggled to pry her limbs from his to exert a toe from the warm nest of their bed. Ah their bed! It seemed to sit in the room like a lovingly rumpled puppy against pale blue window panes dotted in condensation.
