After work, someone decides to roll something between cigarette papers upstairs at the Hanson House. You get bored of the people you are with and decide to take a stroll with no particular destination in mind.
You walk a few blocks down. After awhile, someone sees you and beckons you into a Victorian-style house. You recognize them as owners of a well-known spot of gastronomy frequented by many a famous person where an elderly man hawks cigars and magazines in front and displays artwork of ballerinas. You know them only as casual acquaintances, from eating at their restaurant. They’ve sat down for dinner and you notice that they cut a head of iceberg lettuce in half and topped it with mayonnaise. There’s a bottle of chilled, white wine on the table. They ask you to join them. Even though you are tempted (especially to taste a glass of that wine), you don’t want to intrude. So you politely decline and walk out. You walk a little further. The beach is your destination.
You cross over Montauk Highway. You want to believe that everything is a fairytale here. But there is still the smelly sewage and the decaying architecture that passes for quaint. And you’re just a waitress. You head further south to the beach, and you are baptized in the salty spray of the ocean.
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