We peddle jerkily up paved backwoods roads that run alongside a bay studded with toothpick sails. The webbing between my thumbs hurts from squeezing my brakes hard as the up turns to down and the bike’s clunky frame gains momentum.
The guy leaves his kids with us at the picnic table. Well, not with us, but near us. Still, we are required to watch them, as no one else bothers to pay attention, preoccupied with picking soft meat from the inflamed exoskeletons of lobsters. Mine has already been removed and placed in a neat pile on a seeded bun. Between quick bites, I scold the brother for shoving his sister with the black curls. The though of her falling, grasping at the dock’s frayed rope divide, makes me sputter instead of her.
Claude the Innkeeper reminds us not to forget out bathing suits. He emphasizes that the hot tub is new, therapeutic. His eyes never settled in one place, his mouth twisted thin as he tells of bad reviews on Yelp. Spelled Y-E-L-P. Could we please write something nice? And do use the hot tub. There are at least six different types of spigots.
Mary is from Georgia, where there is always something happening. She rinses a mug in a kitchen enshrined with sea captain figurines and mounted harpoons. It is raining and we can’t leave yet. The train isn’t till four. She walks toward our room, cleaner in tow. I hear plastic rustle and am aware of our garbage being emptied. I wish I could replace her bucket with a slotted basket and set her in an orchard just as the sky starts to clear.
