Lunch on the beach: people are smoking. Most of them. We ask to move tables. Our cover is blown: les Americains. Does Emily understand that the thing she ordered will be a vast plate of shells on a bed of ice with their steamed or raw inhabitants peeking out, asking to be showered in lemon and pulled or scraped from their shells and swallowed mostly whole with rosé while bug-eyed, antenna’d shrimp look on? She does not. There are tears. Plates are moved. The salad, too, is good, and it doesn’t watch you.
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