Thursday, May 13, 2010


About twenty yards in back of him are a series of crab pots. He can see the floating markers put there by a waterman. Crab. Blue Crab. A dozen or so steamed in a huge blue pot with a ton of Bay Seasoning on them.
His hunger has returned, of a sudden. It nearly blinds him with its intensity. He simply must get food. He is wearing jeans. Perhaps he has his wallet with him. He takes it out and finds that there is quite a bit of money in it.
His childhood home is visible on the shore. Perhaps he will visit it, at some point. Not now. He is hesitant, in part, because he is afraid his parents might be home. Of course, he is also afraid that they might not -- that they have moved.
He will go and buy food.
He sets the troll motor, pulls the cord, and heads toward the shore. There is a small concrete place to store the boat.

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