The badge was clipped to the left lapel of her green peacoat. Her chestnut hair was a tangled mess, caught up in the salted wind of Maine's frigid coastline gusts.

The water-peeled skin of the corpse at our feet soiled the marshy air with its rotting flesh and seagull-picked eyes.

And yet.

I...

The fairer sex has the advantage, I suddenly realized. We both wore a kevlar vest but for me, it was a jest of futility against her unintentional wiles.

What a cosmic joke; act on my impulses and lose the only partner I both loved and respected,  or hold back and never feel the press of her wanton flesh against my own.

Fucking professional correctness.