She watched the baby sleeping in the dappled sunlight on their blanket spread over the sand. She rifled through her backpack for the water and her hand came to the camera.
The camera had fallen out of the car when she opened the door and landed in the gutter with a deceptively tiny thump. Something about the angle must have been just right, or just wrong, because it hadn’t worked since. That was yesterday and she still didn’t understand his anger when she told him this morning. How could we have enough love between us to create this beautiful life, but not enough for forgiving?
She stretched out on the blanket and thought about how long she should stay. At the beach and in her marriage. When should she go?
With a heavy sigh, she knew she’d head home before sunset. He would be over it and they would eat dinner together.
Looking back at the beach watching the sunlight hit pieces of beach glass and shimmer in the wet sand, she wished she could take a picture.
52|250 A Year of Flash 