They drove his father's truck to an old-times place he knew. A lake beach with tall dunes.
          He held a towel for her to undress behind. That water's going to be freezing, he said.
          She let a wave splash her feet. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and came up dogpaddling and shivering. She swam under again, dogpaddled and swam, swam and started to warm.
          The water was shallow, and she crouched to her chin. Twilight was falling united into the lake, into inky wavelets. Only the shore's shush and pulse—everything was slow and safe. The long bows of water and color, the heart's dark blue, draping and suffuse—all collected into no burdens, nowhere else. She wanted to stay a long, long time.
          She swam and waded to the ends of dusk, into night. He had gone to the top of a dune.

          They drove on the highway with the windows down. She rested her head, quiet in the shadows and lights sliding through the truck. Passing the night's treetop silhouettes, she loved the wind and the sadness.