The Perfection of Our Solitude 

They came to an impasse. Someone had set out lawn chairs under a shade tree. A man in a short white coat brought drinks on a silver tray. Her name was Birgit, which explained the quantities of sunscreen in her purse. He was Mac, from his Navy days, where he spent months on ships with men he wanted to murder. Everything was washed in a certain light, shadows bowing in, then out again. Their drinks had straws, which often divides the sexes, Mac laying his aside, Birgit nursing hers. Keep yourself in the dark was a motto they tried to follow. The waiter hovered in the doorway and thought about fame. Everything shines for fifteen minutes, the diamond of his pinkie ring said, then it follows the way of the buffalo. The pines moved their lips where the land rose along a crest of shadow and woods. Birds filled the air for a few seconds, then were gone. Animals live in those woods, Mac said. Small animals fighting for their lives. Each of us has an ego, Birgit said. If it hits an iceberg, pity the iceberg.