After fucking, two people lay there on a blanket in the sand.

Water from the Pacific Ocean was gently flowing up onto the shore and sliding back like a DJ’s hand scratching a record of Jack Cousteau gargling mouthwash.

The two people looked up at the stars.

One of them was full of sperm.

The other one was empty.

The empty one started doing pushups.

The full one thought of things to say.

“No, no,” the empty one said.

“What?” the full one said.

“I don’t want to talk.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Alright, that’s it,” the empty one said, standing. “Get up.”

The full one got up slowly, grabbing for her clothes.

The empty one grabbed the blanket and shook the sand out of it.

“I don’t understand,” the full one said.

The empty one, he was making thin smoke signals out of the sand drifting on the breeze as he shook the blanket out.

“No, you do,” he said.

A big bright orange flower sprouted so far down the beach where the shore curved out around itself that it looked like its garden was all the way across the water.

The two people heard a loud crunching sound and felt the ground quaking beneath them and the sky got ghost-white and they looked up with just enough time to die.