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Show DAD-64 the beach and in the bars, to find men. Fire island is no meat market for me. I am above all that, an artist, invited. How splendid it is to be strong! The dock at Fair Harbor is crowded with people in bathing suits pulling red wagons used to haul luggage on this island that doesn't allow cars. I don't see Peter, but that isn't surprising. He probably expects me to find my way to his cottage by now, since this is the third time I've been here. Even so, I feel somewhat forlorn as all the other ferry passengers seem to be greeted with great hugs and handshakes. Yet there's one person ashore who isn't greeting anyone. He's too far away to see clearly at first, but as he walks nearer I see that it is George. Did I tell him I'd be here? Well, yes, but why is he here? It can all get so confusing. I am afraid and grip my bag high in front of me as if to steer things back into control. He walks up to me and holds out his hand for my bag. I decide that it's too difficult to think, and I give it to him. I follow him on the boardwalk, down a sandy path, and stop behind him at a one-story cottage weathered gray, streaked with salt. When I hesitate at the walkway, he says, "Come." I shake my head. "No, I don't think this is where I'm going." "Why not? Come." He offers no explanation and this excites me. The little house is cool and hung with plants and macrame sculptures. There is a stone fireplace with wood stacked next to i t , and braided rugs on the floor, the kind my mother had years ago before wall-to-wall carpeting. A horsehoe kitchen with wooden cabinets is to our left, and near i t , a round oak pedestal table. A sleeping loft cuts halfway into the exposed beam ceiling. I sigh because it's lovely and the dim light feels good after the bright sun on the water. I'm tired, |