The Kiwi

They walk hand-in-hand, the relentless wind not strong enough to tear them apart. It howls a long, eldritch note and holds it out for a protracted moment, then tapers off abruptly. As the wind dies, they can hear the waves battering the craggy rocks, hundreds of feet below them. This goes on day in, day out. Has gone on for millennia. Will continue to go on.
She shakes her wind-whipped hair, full of golden highlights from countless hours spent outside. He catches her eye for a second. Something passes between them.
“Closer,” she says.
“Closer,” he says.
Then they’re at the edge. Below, the foamy waves churn with a malefic force so powerful it’s almost terrifying. The wind picks up again. Now it seems to whine.
She takes in the sharp, salty air. “It’s somehow soporific, isn’t it?” She loves words like that.
“Yes,” he says. “Strangely so.”
“Beautifully so.”
A few minutes pass. They don’t speak. Or maybe they do—through nuanced gestures and movements, through something more transcendent than mere words.
“Hello,” he says. “What’s that?” He bends down to pick something. His cardigan sweater goes up as he does so. She laughs.
“What’s what?”
“Well, what would you know?” He holds out his right hand to her. “A kiwi.”
“You don’t say,” she says.
He smiles. The wind dishevels his hair, makes his clothes billow. He looks perfect. “Shall we?”
“Why yes,” she says. “I believe we shall.”
They do.

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