No one was at the marina except for those who lived on their boats. They were few. It was quiet. No radios blaring, no children shrieking and splashing.
Old Pete stood at his living room window, his arm pulling Etta, his wife of 50 years, into his embrace.
“When will it be over?” Etta said.
“Don’t know. It’ll be over when it’s over,” Pete replied.
“I miss everyone.”
“Yup. But there’s hope.”
“Hope? Where? You’ve always been a cockeyed optimist!”
“Not optimism. God’s promise. Don’t you see the rainbow?”
Etta sighed, leaning in. “Yes. Thanks, Pete.”