San Diego Sunset

"No," she groaned as sleep escaped into the dawn, "Don't go!" Remnants of the dream teased her consciousness. She shivered as she pushed aside the sheets, damp from her perspiration, and rose on shaky legs. The dream was always more vivid toward the end of each month, as if the date carried some mysterious power. And, as the end of the year approached, it intensified to the point of distraction.

Although it was a seemingly innocuous—albeit erotic—dream, it carried with it a promise of many passion-filled tomorrows. The mildest versions simply contained an image of the sun setting into the sea, obviously the west coast. As each month progressed, however, it would grow in duration and intensity until she'd wake with his name on her lips, the pulses of her orgasm fading. The name she could never recapture, but the touch and the scent and the sound of him were as memorable as the sight. His words, spoken into her ear with an urgency bordering on desperation, echoed in her mind: Come to me. His skin smelled of the sea, as if he'd been in the water and dried by the sun, and he tasted of her sex.

Grabbing the notepad and pen from her nightstand, she rapidly jotted down a couple new clues as to the location: a hang glider coasting lazily overhead; a winding path, with occasional rough stairs, along a steep hillside; dark sands on the beach at its base. She shook her head in frustration as the images dissipated, leaving behind only a pervasive longing. There was no doubt in her mind that the place was real. She would find it eventually, and when she did, she'd go there. It was crazy but, no matter the time or the trouble or the cost, she would go. The incredible pull left her no alternative. He'd be waiting there for her, on that beach at sunset. Ready and waiting.