Only in the high season, the holiday season, do you open on Sunday, and only for a few hours, 12:00PM through 4:00PM.

The cabin doesn’t make much money, but neither does it need to. Just enough for groceries and upkeep.

And besides, you don’t need anything else, not when you have the Ocean.

You’ve slipped into a loose, lightweight linen beach dress, perfect for the warm weather. And you’ve opened the heavy shutters and placed the “welcome” sign outside.

Lighting a tealight beneath a small bowl of lavender oil, you ritually set the intimate mood of your little store front, pressing play on a small, comically vintage, CD player that dutifully whirs and begins to pipe a chakra of earthly sounds out into your little crystal cabin.

Looking out into the empty parking area, you relax in readiness for the visitors you know will come.

The car park also serves the customers of a close by dive bar, one that opens for brunch and lunch on the weekends. Friday nights is live music night and occasionally you’ll pop in, to see who’s playing and check out whatever’s going on.

Most Sundays the bikers come out, leisurely cruising, and you love seeing the different machines parked up outside.

Today’s no exception. Those V-twins rumbling, their finned polished chrome engines glinting in the sunlight.

You love the custom ones, the cruisers and the street rods, with their bright orange flames and sunburst paint. But you also love the battered ones, those blackened rat bikes, rebel Harleys, Triumphs, Royal Enfields and even the odd Moto Guzzi.

Sitting at the counter, behind the register, you flip absently through a fashion catalogue that came in the post, a trade magazine with various silk kimono’s and exotic pashmina’s, ready for the new season.

The doorbell ding-a-lings and as you look up you’re instantly struck; memory and fantasy seemingly fusing as you witness the emotional welding of a hammer and an anvil. Is this even possible?

His eyes could be carved from hickory, as rich as the earth’s soil; stained with the deep brown colour of hot chocolate on a cold, winters night, his gaze wrapping around you like a blanket; engulfing you in a warmth that has you feeling all the more reassured.

Such deep pools of deliciously dark-cinnamon, emotions swirl, seizing the depth of you, pulling and plundering your imagination with the heaviness of one thousand untold stories, each imprisoned within a hundred journals, their pages singed with the sweetness of burnt sugarcane.

In your mouth, you can taste dark-cherried chocolate and the smooth, arabica-rich bitterness of this morning’s strong coffee.

Those beautiful brown eyes, consisting of raw emotion, a cartography concealing a crime of buried treasures, waiting to be unearthed and reunited with the woman who buried them there, so long ago.

You know these eyes. You’ve studied and observed their hieroglyphic secrets in every light, gained their knowledge and their trust over so many years. How could this be?

And yet here they are, once gain unveiling their intimate light, revealing to you, and you alone, an ominous confession.

He steps inside, carefully closing the door behind him, his smile as familiar to you as your own reflection.

His long hair remains tucked inside his heavy leather jacket, a thick mane of a Nordic strength, a russet blonde, a Viking tangle of auburn and ash.

The hue in his eyes comes shifting with the mingling light, yours, his, interwoven, dancing, sensing shades of acorn, just bright enough to shine beneath the dappled shadows of an overhanging canopy of beech, oak and elm.

You remember how often you would dream, with your hand held in his, all the while keeping your gaze grounded to the earth and to the soil, else tilting upward to the open sky.

Only when you were truly brave enough would you ever dare to meet all of his energy with all of yours, and as if it were only yesterday, or earlier this same morning, a shiver of golden light comes once again, racing through your spine…

Every time…

Every time.

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