The Sweat of the Brow (iv)

Ben Deor’s been drinking at the Cove even longer than I have. He’s there every day. Shows up around noon, stays until the stars shine. Decade in, decade out.

Mostly he just stares off at the ocean. Could be he’s got a cort, his eyes are open but he’s actually seeing the pages of a book or watching a movie or using a bristle emulator to paint the seascape in its hues of saffron and silver. Could be he’s crazy, or the happiest drunk in the world. Mostly I stopped thinking about it a long time ago.

He nods at me as I sit down, raises his glass to meet mine. “You took the sea,” he says, in his slow Old Florida drawl.

“Uh huh.”

“Good news or bad?” he asks.

I stare into my drink, but it doesn’t answer.

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~ by davekov on 27 September 2011.

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