An odd family lived in that fishing village where I waitressed. They dressed talked and acted like the highbrow coastal summertime homeowners, but worked service jobs like us year-rounders. Downwardly mobile by divorce, I’d heard. The golden-haired beautiful smiling daughter one day asked for a ride from the inn to the shacks. Her boyfriend lived there; the fishermen had long ago moved to mobile homes inland and the lobster shacks were mostly inhabited by young trust fund hippies. He was golden-haired, beautiful, carefree. We spent a hot lazy day drinking beer, barely speaking, and lounging. Lounge chairs, the dock, into the shack, to a towel, and round again. We must have eaten something, and we were young enough to think of summer as a long stretch. The sun burned our skin, and the other sun reflected off the calm harbor burned our eyes. Peaceful, friendly, outside the boundaries of those things that divided us. The ocean does that.
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