She loves me to stroke her hair.
Her hair is so soft. Fine, like a baby's. It gets so frizzy.
We live near the ocean. She chose it.
We love it here, where the shoreline is filled with life.
We explore the rocky beaches at low tide, together.
It's slippery, so I hold her hand. The rocks are rough and jagged.
I didn't mean to be late, but she isn't supposed to go down alone.
She's stubborn.
She forgets her disability. She hates me to remind her.
Her hair is so soft. Wet. Tangled.
She loves me to stroke it.