The Sweat of the Brow (xxi)

I’m sitting at the Cove. Ben’s out at the ocean, drawing from the sea. He’ll be back soon. There’s nobody else there but a bartender. It’s ten thirty in the morning.

The bartender must be ninety. It’s a retirement job, paying Retirement Minimum. He isn’t there for the money. He’s just there for the sun and the spray and the sand and getting out the house and dying in the sunlight.

Same as Ben.

Same as me.


~ by davekov on 19 November 2011.

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