Marcus found himself smiling before he could decide whether to "Claire," she said, reaching forward to take the towel. "I know we've met, but I don't think I've ever actually introduced myself properly. I'm your neighbor, Marcus," he said. "I know. You know my name. " Block association meeting.
"You gave a 10-minute argument about why the HOA shouldn't charge residents for guest parking. " I remembered. She raised an eyebrow. Because it was a bad argument. Because it was a good one. She seemed surprised by that.
She held the towel in both hands and looked at him for a moment with an expression he couldn't fully read, like she was recalibrating something. Well, she said, "I'm sorry about your face. My face is fine. Are you sure? You look slightly stunned.
That's just my face. " She laughed again, smaller this time. But real. Okay, Marcus who lives on my street. I'm going to find a spot that doesn't involve assault by beach linens. She gestured vaguely down the shore.
Nice to officially meet you. You, too, he said. She walked away. He watched her go for exactly 1 second. Then made himself look back at the water.
His heart was doing something unusual. He told it to stop. He lasted about 40 minutes before he noticed she was back. Not intentionally, or at least not entirely. He had been watching the water, and his peripheral vision simply informed him that the woman in the wide-brimmed hat was now sitting approximately 12 ft to his left, facing the ocean.
Her phone turned face down on her bag. Her arms were wrapped around her knees. She wasn't looking at anything in particular. She was just sitting like him. He almost didn't say anything.
He was good at not saying anything. He had years of practice at constructing an invisible perimeter around himself in public spaces and maintaining it with the focused discipline of a man who had learned through a series of painful experiences that it was safer to be self-contained. People were unpredictable. They asked questions he didn't want to answer. They looked at him with that particular flavor of pity that was somehow worse than indifference.
But she had laughed at herself instead of pretending the thing hadn't happened. She had introduced herself like an adult. She had made a joke about his face. "You come here a lot? " he called over. She turned her head, fishing for conversation.
"Marcus, just making an observation. " "No," she said. "I don't actually. " She was quiet for a moment. "I've been here 2 years and this might be the third time. " "Why? " She seemed to consider the question seriously. I always mean to. I tell myself every week.