There is a camera crew on the beach. Two camera positions. There is a boom hanging over the sand. Emergency boats are on the sand. There is the expectancy that something should happen exactly here.
The pier is long and wooden. Shells for sale. Shells for sale. At the waxworks on the sea end, a woman poses with a mannequin labeled Einstein. Shells for sale. Telescopes. For a small payment, you could look through a telescope to places like this. Shells for sale. Quiet on the top, warm wood.
Down the steps, on the walkway under the pier, people zip jackets and speak over the rush and slapping on the bottom. There is a perspective in the pilings. The shady place smells of piss.
Three middle-aged women who would not, you think, usually, have stripped to their bras and are sitting on the long white bench. Their backs lean on the painted bench slats, their lace-patterned cones pointed to the beach, and their heads tilt back to let the sun into the cracks.
"So, that's it?" in the American voice.
Quiet on the top, warm wood. Shells for sale.