Everywhere, sunglasses in the pale gloom. I felt that if some of these people would just take off their sunglasses I'd see behind them not eyes, but hot amoebae made to see through, in each face two grainy, fur-fringed, feverish sacs of motile wetness, pulsing with mitochondria, squirting ravenously through the tunneled chambers of one another's privacy, exchanging vital matter in a glance. Breeding, feeding, reproducing, dying—the peculiar colony of recognitions which has lived and bred upon the Provincetown ferry deck for generations.

Liat returned with breakfast—coffee and a fried egg sandwich for me, a Danish for herself—and I put on the sunglasses to eat and watch the fog through yellow glass. She wiped the seat off with my kafia and then sat on both, observing the dampness with displeasure. "Look," I said, holding out my arm. She drew a furrow of squished hairs and then, laughing, flicked the drop of water now suspended from her nail into my face. Then she asked how my breakfast was, so I took a sloppy bite. Just what I was in the mood for, I said. She looked at me strangely. "When I was buying it I couldn't remember if you were the person I went out with who hated fried eggs but then I decided you weren't, and then when I bought it I wasn't sure."

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