C H 1 2 — S C E N E 1
I shoulder my duffle bag and head to the café, which is silent and blue in the dawn, broken only by the stirring of newspapers. Cold oats and coffee. A message from Mom, who gets up at seven in the morning to let our dog into the garden, him running joyfully among the seagulls fishing in ebb-tide sands for clams, beating the sky in a furious burst of wings—‘best of luck, love, we’re all so excited to see you!’ and a minute later, ‘send my wishes to your partner, too. I’m picking hydrangea’. I picture the flowers in front of our house: pale blue, dripping from the morning rain. He will love them.
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