The band was loading its equipment, not one more encore could be squeezed from them, so I headed home. I did not get very far. I did not want to go home. Instead I parked and went for a walk. The night was blast furnace hot and after dancing for hours I craved the cool. In pursuit of a breeze I headed to the docks where narrow board walkways hem the yachts and dinghies. Sure enough, there were soft wisps of scented breeze. Sometimes I hung over the railings hoping to see a torpedo-sized tarpon, or better yet the cement bollard that is the prehistoric manatee.
However, turns out I was not alone. From the other direction came a couple of lads, one lanky, one squat, both in their early twenties, at most. Strolling and chatting, they rolled their rusty banged up bikes on the back wheels.
“Are you lost?” asked Squat, with a smile.
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