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Show DAD-65 and glad I'm not facing Peter and his stimulating visitors. Perhaps he'll assume I decided not to come. "Sit." George gestures to a rocking chair next to the fireplace. I think I fall asleep for awhile. When I awaken, there is the smell of steaks being broiled and frying bacon. The bacon, it turns out, is for a spinach salad, and the steaks are thick and tender, red inside. "Why...?" I begin. He tells me to be silent, and asks that we just be together and not explain. We are, and consequently we don't get out to the ocean until nearly sunset. It's low tide, and I scamper like a child on the ebb shoreline, searching for shells and pebbles. I never could lie still on the sand like the dark-haired others. Beaches are for exploring and feeling with the toes, for nearly stepping on jellyfish clear as glass, and finding patterns in the sand that look like trees-trees I can enjoy now. Sleeping I'll do under the umbrella of the city smog. Here, I find cockle shells and moon shells, beach glass polished transluscent by the sand, and amethyst-purple chips of broken clam shells, Gorgon-like sprawls of seaweed, and foam trapped in little pools. The tide begins to return, and we walk along the dunes. I feel the wind rising from the ocean. It doesn't matter suddenly whether or not I am seen. I am led, inarticulate, docile. It's enough simply to be taken on. Back in the loft he says, "I think I'm going to be in love with you." I shake my head. No, none of that, please. He persists and I find that I would like to believe him, as if a speck within me that had settled to the bottom were being coaxed to the surface, stirred up like a tea leaf, swaying back and forth like a tiny hand conducting slow music. I want the cup to be still and |