I find an apple in my bag. Everything is simple. Love is ordinary and good and engraved onto benches and plaques along the pier. The sky’s so blue I could puke. Time is not a source of worry. Nor is age or tooth decay. Nothing matters. Only water and stones, birds and minimal shelter, trees and sea. The air smells of lunch. K is quiet and calm, but dangerous like a razored Halloween apple. Clouds brew and blacken, priming for rain. The sea will rage. I will read nothing into it. I’ll eat my apple and go inside where I will do something until I want to do something else.