The sun dipped low, painting the Pacific gold, waves lapping soft against the NoCal coast. Lucky had just finished a cigarette. Justice sat on a worn blanket, her notebook resting nearby, ink fresh from her latest poetic composition. Beside her, Lucky lounged, his postal worker’s hands telling begrudgingly their own story. Days spent sorting mail left his nails edged with ink smudges. Hours gripping the wheel of his mail truck, navigating city streets, added faint stains of grease. Cigarettes and beers—his after-work actions—left traces of ash and nicotine, darkening his finger tips.

Justice’s eyes caught the dirt under his nails, a quiet contrast to the rhythm of the ocean. She reached for her manicure kit, a small gesture of care in the fading light. Her hands moved with purpose, clipping and cleaning, smoothing out the roughness of his daily grind. The beach stretched around them, sand cool, seagulls circling above. Lucky stayed still, letting her work, his usual edge softened by the moment. When she finished, his hands looked cleaner, sharper, like they carried less of the world’s weight. Justice tucked her tools away, the tide kept its pulse, and the two sat in the glow of the sunset, the moment as vivid as her poetry.

The scene was set to be a sex scene in the film Poetic Justice, but the two characters never had sex, which may explain why Lucky never smoked another cigarette after this scene.