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of its own existence, romanticized and cherished by countless poets but incapable of knowing human passion, pain, and promise.
        He believed that he must learn to accept the cold mechanics of Creation, because it made no sense to rail at a mindless machine. After all, a clock could not be held responsible for the too-swift passage of time. A loom could not be blamed for weaving the cloth that later was sewn into an executioner's hood. He hoped that if he came to terms with the mechanistic indifference of the universe, with the meaningless nature of life and death, he would find peace.
        Such acceptance would be cold comfort, indeed, and deadening to the heart. But all he wanted now was an end to anguish, nights without nightmares, and release from the need to care.
        Two newcomers arrived and spread a white beach blanket on the sand about twenty feet north of him. One was a stunning redhead in a green thong bikini skimpy enough to make a stripper blush. The other was a brunette, nearly as attractive as her friend.
        The redhead wore her hair in a short, pixie cut. The brunette's hair was long, the better to conceal the communications device that she was no doubt wearing in one ear.
        For women in their twenties, they were too giggly and girlish, high-spirited enough to call attention to themselves even if they had not been stunning. They lazily oiled themselves with tanning lotion, took turns greasing each other's back, touching with languorous pleasure, as if they were in the opening scene of an adult video, drawing the interest of every heterosexual male on the beach.
        The strategy was clear. No one would suspect that he was under surveillance by operatives who concealed so little of themselves and concealed themselves so poorly. They were meant to be as unlikely as the men in the Hawaiian shirts had been obvious. But for thirty dollars' worth of reconnaissance and the libidinous observations of a horny fourteen-year-old, their strategy would have been effective.
        With long tan legs and deep cleavage and tight round rumps, maybe they were also meant to engage Joe's interest and seduce him into conversation with them. If this was part of their assignment, they failed. Their charms didn't affect him.
        During the past year, any erotic image or thought had the power to stir him only for a moment, whereupon he was overcome by poignant memories of Michelle, her precious body and her wholesome enthusiasm for pleasure. Inevitably, he thought also of the terrible long fall from stars to Colorado, the smoke, the fire, then death. Desire dissolved quickly in the solvent of loss.
        These two women distracted Joe only to the extent that he was annoyed about their incompetent misidentification of him. He considered approaching them to inform them of their mistake, just to be rid of them. After the violence in the lavatory, however, the prospect of confrontation made him uneasy. He was drained of anger now, but he no longer trusted his self-control.
        One year to the day.
        Memories and gravestones.
        He would get through it.
        Surf broke, gathered the foamy fragments of itself, stole away, and broke again. In the patient study of that endless breaking, Joe Carpenter gradually grew calm.
        Half an hour later, without the benefit of another beer, he was ready to visit the cemetery.
        He shook the sand out of his towel. He folded the towel in half lengthwise, rolled it tight, and picked up the cooler.
        As silken as the sea breeze, as buttery as sunlight, the lithe young women in the thong bikinis pretended to be enthralled by the monosyllabic repartee of two steroid-thickened suitors, the latest in a string of beach-boy Casanovas to take their shot.
        The direction of his gaze masked by his sunglasses, Joe could see that the beauties' interest in the beefcake was pretence. They were not wearing sunglasses, and while they