Sophia and her Pom, Weachie, down on the beach near Papamoa as the light went soft.
Some of it is the two of them, her holding him in close, him watching everything. Some of it is just her, sea behind, the wind doing what it wanted with her hair.
Weachie got a run of his own on the sand. Ears up, tongue out, in charge of the whole beach.
Her, at the water's edge, the last of the sun coming through.
— Tony