Low Tide

The weather was a pleasant seventy-one degrees and sunny. It was mild rather than hot, with only wisps of clouds in the azure sky. In the afternoon, Hannah opened all three windows of her stuffy garage apartment, but that wasn't enough to invigorate her. She changed into white capri pants and a yellow top with spaghetti straps. With sandals on her feet and ponytail swinging, she left the property and rode her bike to the public beach a few minutes away. After chaining it to a palm tree, she kicked off her shoes and walked onto the beach. The sand was coarse here, with a rock jetty on the left to prevent erosion. Water lapped at the shore rather than broke against it.

It was March yet, so she only dared to roll her pants up to her knees and dip her toes in the cold water. Some people could swim all the way out to the breakers in this weather and not bat an eyelash. Hannah didn't have the constitution for it. Gulls circled overhead. Using her hand as a sun visor, Hannah tipped her head back and watched them dive and float on the currents of air.

The water was cold, very cold, Joseph Tropiano could testify to that. He’d foregone the heated pool in his hotel for the not so welcoming embrace of the open sea: some would call that madness, but the space was what Joseph needed, and the clarity.

( Cold Water )

One of the things GW really enjoyed about Key West was the festive atmosphere that permeated the city year round. It reminded him of New Orleans back home in Louisiana with the mix of cultures and how there was always something going on. For a professional musician it was a paradise. With the dense collection of bars and clubs and a thriving live music scene, it wasn't hard for a good band to find gigs.

Today though, he was on his own and for once there were no classes to teach or maintenance to perform on his boat. The Cajun stood in the gardens of the Oldest House, conch in hand and waiting his turn to blow on the shell and participate in the 48th Conch Shell Blowing Contest. He'd been practicing with the natural instrument, and judging from some of the other contestants it was a good thing he had. Who knew so many different sounds could come out of a crustacean's shell?

A few spots ahead of him, a petite blonde stood hugging an enormous conch shell. The outside of it was still pearly pink, but the inside had been hand-painted into a vibrant ocean landscape. Hurricane Hannah's was written in curly letters across the blue sky. While waiting for her turn, Hannah ran her thumb over the nodules of the shell, only stopping when she came across a prominent one that reminded her of a nipple. Grimacing, she flailed a bit. "Eww."

( There She Blows? )

GW smiled and waved as his last (and youngest) student in the 12:30 karate class left the room with her mother, and then breathed a silent sigh of relief. Mrs. Jenkins had been not-so-subtly trying to pick him up for a few weeks now and he'd been doing his best to indicate he wasn't interested, short of actually telling the woman off, as he made a point not to date other men's wives. If Sally wasn't such a dedicated and gifted student, he'd probably have tried to find another instructor for her to go to, but the girl was a joy to teach.

The Cajun took a swig from his water bottle and then checked his watch; he had a good half hour before his next class. That meant he had a little time to stretch and practice some of his more advanced katas before the students started trickling in.

Old Town Fitness was a modest building with dark windows and a sea-green front. The owners could've just as easily sold tire rims in there as taught fitness classes; from the outside, one couldn't tell what went on inside. Hannah had passed it before, back when it was called Iron Bodies. Being a naturally petite sort who walked her dog and liked to swim, organized fitness didn't make the list of things Hannah was burning to try. A pilates video in her Christmas stocking had put the nail in that coffin, thanks to a particularly grueling set of flutter kicks and a pulled ass muscle. And that was that.

( Or Its Diminutive Friend )

( Hannah's Personal Journal )

The tent at the corner of Greene and Elizabeth Streets was enormous, like a real circus tent. A sign made an arch out front: Holiday Cayo Carnival. Underneath, a local band played rock versions of Christmas carols and other cover songs. That's because nobody knew theirs well enough to sing drunkenly along. There was seafood and beer. A man breathed fire, a woman barked like an auctioneer to sell tickets to a skeeball game. The 'carnies' were actually members of the Harbor Branch Oceanographic Institution, and they held the event every year to benefit the coral reefs.

Hannah had a plate of fried jumbo shrimp and lemon wedges. She sat at a picnic table, squinting and leaning away as she pinched a piece of the fruit. Squirting lemon juice in her eye would be bad. Once finished, she licked her fingertips and ate a piece of shrimp. She washed it down with beer out of a red cup.

The blonde was alone. Kind-of a habit. Hannah was a "people person", but her life was full of strangers, a never-ending parade of faces who spoke to the friendly girl at the craft stand and left. A few exceptions existed, like Mallory, and the odd date here and there, just because men made her feel like a natural woman. But most of the time, Hannah was an island. She had her reasons.

( And the juggler's act was danced upon the crown you once wore )

Long after the last cruise ship left port, Hannah closed out her register. The vendors of Mallory Square lounged in folding chairs and on stools. They talked amongst one another, arms propped behind their hands and flip-flops dangling off their toes. Some packed up their goods for the night. Since Hurricane Hannah's was a cart, all the proprietor needed to do was pull down an aluminum door and lock it. She took her time stuffing items in her shoulder bag, which contained the day's necessities: a notebook, gel pens, phone, keys, sunglasses, chapstick, and enough fruit-flavored gum to give a person TMJ.

Hannah set it on the pavement and began to pull the rolling door into place. Unfortunately, its tendency to get off-track flared up. "Crap," she grumbled and dropped her belongings. Hannah hated technical difficulties, like getting a flat tire on her moped, locking herself out of her garage apartment, and the rare occasion when her cash drawer jammed. Nice as people on the island were, it was embarrassing to encounter problems a can of WD-40 wouldn't fix.

"And breeeeaathe," she coaxed herself. Hannah shook out her arms. Ugh, people were staring. Maybe if she gave the door some time to think about its actions, it would cooperate. "On a count of three," she coached, "You're going to roll all the way down, got it? One. Two... Three." She heaved the door up, then slammed it down again.

( A Little Help Here? )

( Hannah's Diary - New Material )

Key West boasted a few public beaches, but only one catered to dogs, the aptly named Dog Beach. It sat near the corner of Waddell and Vernon. There was an open area of sand that led to the water's edge, which was calm and turquoise. On the left side, piles of slippery rocks were less easy to navigate. Hannah kept her dachshund away from those, paranoid the little hot dog would wiggle into a crevice and never make it out. She pedaled up on her beach cruiser with the dog in a heavyweight basket. It danced around her legs while she locked up the bike.

"Hang on a second!" Hannah hopped around to keep her ankles free. The U-shaped bolt resisted. "You're going to chop off my feet. I dunno who you think's gonna pedal us home." Finally managing to snap the pieces together, she straightened. "Unless stranding us is your master plan." The little dog wiggled in place, not the picture of innocence. Hannah scowled. "Thought so. C'mon." Out on the sand, she unhooked the leash and let him run around.

Mallory usually made time after work for her dog, since Tuffy liked to play in the small waves and dig in the sand. It always meant a bath when they got home, since the salt and sand made the bulldog's thick fur stiff, but it wasn't much of a hardship. The redhead had made sure to bring along the pooper scooper and a couple of paper bags in case the mutt made a mess. Even without a law in place, she wasn't leaving anything behind for anyone to step in.

( Shooting the Breeze...Then a Bombshell )

He'd left the house because it was too quiet, left and walked down to the beach, where he looked out at the water like a man in a dream.The last time he'd seen the ocean this close up, it was under much less benign circumstances than this, but it still felt slightly ominous to him. Supposedly, this was his life, and yet it seemed as if everything had a film of unreality over it, like thin plastic sheeting. The Destroyer rubbed his brow, wondering if he was going to be nursing a headache later.

He'd ended up in Mallory Square, where he had lunch at an open-air hot dog stand. Mustard with lots of relish. That, at least was familiar, the taste of pickles mixed in with the tang of the yellow mustard. Connor threw away his trash, carried the cup of soda off with him. If he walked, something might start to make sense. The day wasn't hot, but the sun still felt good on his back and shoulders. Ice rattled against thin cardboard as he poked the straw in between the cubes.

( Who's That Girl? )

( Hannah's Diary )