He spurns her devotion… She discovers the affair… He comes to her in apology, but she spurns his attempt….Roses are delivered…. Devastated and confused, she climbs out onto the rock jetty and throws the roses to the churning Atlantic…The flowers are gathered by the tide, caught as flotsam, and washed up on shore miles away. The rejected apology gesture is spurned again, by the ocean.

The English teacher and writer in me sees a hundred possible stories in this cluster of tide line jumble.