Secret Engines

I meet Allison, my high school love, near Pontius Pier. She's only in town for a few days, she and her husband. She wants to see me. I wouldn't have known if it weren't for Cricket, who always knows where to find me. I asked Cricket what Allison could possibly want - she'd destroyed me in a dumpster fire breakup three weeks into college - but he said he had no idea, and Cricket never lies. A flash of ego insinuates she wants to repent, get back together, start life over. That same flash of ego tells me to withhold forgiveness just long enough to make her cry, and then take her into my arms. A flash of Neolithic violence suggests something worse, though I can usually dodge those thoughts. It's cool out. I have stolen a baby blue windbreaker. It says 'Bermuda' on the chest. Allison's on the pier, looking out at the ocean. The wind's right on her, and strands of hair reach toward me like the arms of someone falling from a ledge. I call her name, and she

My right eye is still crusted shut, even after four days. I've been sleeping out on the beach. I thought the salt air might do something to salve the burn, but no dice. I just have to sit here and burn until I find the gypsy woman -- makes me feel better to call her a gypsy woman -- who touched me with that scum-riddled hand. And God, does it burn like hell. The sun's out, but it's not nearly as oppressive as usual. September's bringing cool air even here, to the beach. The time for cut-off jeans, if such a time exists, is passing. Thursday night was downright cold, and I had to dig myself a little trench in which to keep warm. No one freezes to death on the beach, but that doesn't stop the nipples from turning hard as the droplets of a diamond chandelier. Some of the drunks on the strip swear by Sailor Mighty, a coconut milk beverage fortified to 22 percent that they sell up at Glen's on Providence, but I try to tell them it doesn't actually keep you warm.