His name is stupid. It baffles her even as it makes her laugh. She doesn't even bother thinking much past it because the more he says his name, the more she simply lives to prove him wrong.

Can't Touch This becomes an obsession. One she touches, frequently and with all manner of force. Each time tickles her stomach until she is smirking and giggling at his response. And it becomes a game. How and when and why can she prove him wrong; he can be touched, by her.

Games are meant to have rules and this one has none. So it shouldn't be a surprise when it results in five little ones. It shouldn't; it still is.

Breach has never, not truly, thought of motherhood. She doesn't stay; she is a wave that ebbs and flows. But children are needy and she finds it difficult to stray. Even with her mother to watch them, she lingers. And so does he, in his own way. And they become her eddy, a wake that trails behind her even as the distance sometimes grows the bond never weakens.

She doesn't know what to think of it all. Even when they are grown, she's not sure of her role. She isn't like her mother or her other mother. She isn't like anyone she knows. She's just fragments and still cannot seem to find her place. It's here and there and this and that but the only thing in common is her. And she doesn't know what to do with any of it but live.

She has more reasons to visit now. Children and a buck; mother and siblings. A pseudo-father and half-siblings. The ocean and the swamp. Just a wave, returning to and fro. Pieces of seafoam.