He stands at the waters edge, eating tomatoes like apples, which doesn’t appear to be so strange to him, but he notices that there are a couple of old ladies watching. He lowers his sunglasses and gives them the evil eye. They turn back to their magazines, laying on lounge chairs, their husbands smoking cigarettes and generally ignoring them. Tomatoes are a perfect beach eat, he thinks. That and watermelon. Watermelon comes out of his mouth, he actually says it, the ladies look over again and this time he just walks off down the sand to the bar.
The girl at the bar makes an excellent espresso. He asks for ice, which annoys her.
Her: Ice is for wimps.
The beach is empty. Not because it’s not hot, because it is unbearably hot, but because it’s a Tuesday. But Tuesdays are perfect beach days, he thinks. And Wednesdays.
He adjusts the umbrella, the lounger, and passes out. It’s 11am.