They rode out of the water, flanks steaming and chlorine stinking.
The words of the two left behind in the hot tub floating, iridescent in the air.
The white ball standing in the dewed grass like an opportunity.
They played, passing the ball between them.  The leather stung their legs, but they didn’t care because the mist rising from the rhododendrons and the wet of the grass and the sparkling wine in their stomachs sang enough to drown it out.
The moment transcended them.
The sigh of the old trees that had seen more rule-less games like theirs than they could conceive encouraged them.
The torn grass in between their toes said:
"Yes. I feel you. You feel me. Our meeting has only been delayed.  This is pointless."
And in its pointlessness there was a point – that they were young and could use their bodies to run on wet grass and wait till risen sun drove them to their beds.
"I am alive; and so are you."