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Play Tennis

The ball comes screaming over the net to my backhand. I can’t remember her ever hitting it so well. I labor over to it and slice it weakly towards her forehand. The sun is in my eyes, glaring mercilessly from just over my brow like a lightbulb at the end of my hat brim. Or am I wearing a hat? No. No hat.

Low Tide

At dusk he sat himself in the dense sand left from high tide and pushed his hands into the sand and watched it crack and lift and crumble. Couples on the long stroll from here to there and back detoured into the mellow surf before him without looking down and moved on in the diminishing light. He sensed their coming…

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