The lantern was her beacon. Every clear night for the past eight months, he sat at the end of that pier with only the antique lantern as his companion. While his appearance tonight was per usual, she felt the pangs of change deep within her soul.
His face was worn with fatigue, but tonight it was not forlorn. His posture was laid-back, not broken. She watched as he looked up to the skies. The lapping water could not compete with the deep tenor of his voice as he began to sing.
The sensual roughness of his tone shocked her. Or perhaps, it was the way her body responded to the intimate performance that threw her off balance. She strained forward with breath held, wishing upon the million shining stars that his song was meant for her.
Although she wore nothing more than a soft cotton shift that brushed the top of her thighs, her bare feet carried her down the wooden steps to the path that led to his pier. Her heart was pounding, but she was compelled to reach out to him now. She had waited patiently (or on nights when she pleasured herself with fantasies of him, impatiently) for him to process his grief.
She wanted, no needed, him to mourn no more.
As she hesitated at the pier gate, he turned to her. The hunger she saw in his eyes brought her to her knees. He walked slowly but confidently to her. With no words spoken, he joined her on the rough hewn boards. He was alone no more. Neither was she.