Here I untie my hair and it stands at right angles from my head; oh, the humidity.

We tied up our bikes and walked for miles today. After a week of strict sobriety, the ocean finally let loose its inhibitions. Everything was gray. Mark waxed poetic about when seashells were a form of currency, aping an impression of the first beachcomber. There was hardly anyone to overhear. A man stood with a spool of string, indifferent to the lifeless kite in the sand. Not that he seemed the type to run it headlong into the wind, anyway— but maybe, if there had been kids to see. Overhead gulls flapped around.

Amber and I trespassed on a construction site and stood on the unframed porch, contemplating our downpayment for the third floor view. “Four million dollars,” said Amber. “Or four million seashells,” I said. We ducked into a hollow room to hide from the neighbors on the left and found a very compromising view of the neighbors to the right. Amber considered leaving them a note, except that would have been evidence of our crime.

Later, on the tennis court, we botched a game of doubles, but with definite style. The father-son team in the adjacent court ran drills, the live version of Pong. Overhead: two fighter jets dogged north.