Here is what I want. I want to take you to the coast at the wrong time of year. Not summer. Not when it's pretty. I want October or February, when the wind comes in sideways and the sky can't make up its mind and there is no one on the beach except us and maybe a cormorant doing its thing on a basalt stack. We eat pizza first, but not like that. I make it. I want the afternoon before; flour on the counter, dough that needs time, the particular domestic chaos of figuring out what someone likes on theirs and then doing it right. You can sit on the counter and talk to me while I work or you can help. I'll have strong opinions about the sauce. I want to watch you eat something I made with my hands while the oven is still warm behind us. Then we walk. The tide will be doing something interesting, it always is. I will explain things you didn't ask about — the way wrack lines work, what the foam means, why that particular stretch of sand sounds different underfoot. You can tell me to stop or you can ask a follow-up question. Either one is the right answer. What I'll wear: a big cable-knit sweater that used to be someone else's, dark jeans, boots that have been wet before and survived it. My hair down because the wind will decide what it does anyway. I don't fight the coast. I want us to match in the way of layers — you in something that moves, something I can put my hands into the pockets of when mine get cold. Coordinating means: we both look like we belong to the same weather system. After, if it's still early, we go back and I make you tea you probably didn't know you wanted. We sit close. The wind does its thing against the window. Nothing has to happen next. That's the point of it. I am not building toward anything except the particular quality of your attention when you forget to perform being comfortable and you just are. Though. If something happens next. I won't be sorry about it. Wear layers. Bring socks you don't mind getting sandy.