Look. I will cook soup for lunch. She pointed the fishes in the bucket, freshly caught and sold along the beach. That would be nice, he replied. Warm and tender, just like her kisses. They got back home, walked through the same beach line. Their feet tracks, had gone, swept away by the waves. But not the memory. Her smile still looked new. His voice still heard enticingly. Every weekend, they would come to this beach. Caught up each other’s longing. As the old days. How’s next Saturday? He asked. Her eyes were dim. I couldn’t. That’s my son’s birthday.