I throw up. Better than finding crinkled cash in old blue jeans. In a small boat. Bathers at the cabin. The camera hangs from a sail tie in the companionway and oscillates with the swells. Forty minutes later a ship comes roaring by and the second bridge opens. My eyes round as grapefruits, my arm hair standing on end.
He is having a ball.
GIRL WITH A BOAT (MAYA PICASSO)
No engine. Trans fluid. I have acquired a new family. I am at the helm riding a bull. Up and down they argue until the glue secures them to the keyboard.