Kate lets go of Sam's hand and runs down the path to the beach. He watches as she stretches out her arms to the sky in a yoga pose - some kind of sun worship dealie - he can't remember what it's called. She spots something in the distance and calls out to him, throwing a huge grin over he shoulder and admonishing him to hurry up already. He used to love her exuberance, her childlike ability to play and to enjoy every moment of the day. Six years later, though, he hates admitting to himself that it's wearing kind of thin. Lately it feels like they're stuck together on some kind of relationship teeter totter. The happier Kate gets, the lower Sam sinks into despair. Like today, he can't see what's so lovely about the beach. It's gray and cloudy and the sky is going to flipping rain all over their plans for the afternoon. But there she is acting like a preschooler itching for her teacher's approval. Otherwise why would she be doing sun poses and pointing at what is probably a run of the mill seagull or a dime a dozen parasailer? "Okay, already," he grumbles as his feet crunch to the place where rocky path meets sand. Yes, I see you. Aren't you the adorably cute one, he wants to yell at her. Maybe loud enough to blow that bright smile off her face. Then, in the next breath he remembers that he loves her. He loves her. So, coming up beside her, he forces his voice to a brittle, "I'm here, already. What's the big deal?" She squeals and claps her hands, pointing at the sky again. He follows her gaze, gasping when he sees it. He takes her hand and squeezes it. "Never, in a million years..." he whispers.