A pair of plump, skinny-legged women, late middle-aged and top heavy, balance in the belly-high seawater, yards from shore. Each holds raised in their right hands a beer can, and in their lefts, a cigarette. They are offset mirrors of one another, their cheeks abused by the sun, and they stare glumly at the beach. The sand-clouded, yellow-green waters washing around their expansions and crevices, their tumescent and skirted one-piece bathing suits, have surged and sucked and trembled and roared for millennia and are just as likely to do so for millennia hereafter. The indifference of the sea is pure. Few places preach the passing of time like the beach. Few things taunt us with death like the ceaseless pummel of waves upon our eroding shore.