Just thinking...

of this bar in Rhode Island that I'm not at all sure I could ever find again on my own, maybe it was Charlestown? It was on the coast, east of Misquamicut... I was drunk. I wasn't driving. Was it before or after stopping at some sex shop? Maybe before? It was in a basement. The floor was concrete. It seemed to have sea water on it. It was dark. The barmaid was Irish. I mean Irish with an accent. She was pretty, with a reserved but knowing attitude. If I lived around there she probably would have been my friend. We tumbled in there - was it before or after the other bar, where I'm pretty sure we ate some fish and chips? On the same road. They were on the same road. Outside the other bar was, of course, the Atlantic ocean. We ended up out on that beach at some point. Floodlights from the bar illuminated the choppy surf. What time was it? Dark. It was dark. Above the berm and crashing sea foam, appearing as almost an optical illusion, were - hundreds? Maybe hundreds - of seabirds, diving, rising, criss-crossing each other madly, as they picked away at the teeming schools of silver fish. The wind thrashed. The seabirds seemed hypnotized, unable to pull away from this bounty. He looked at me as if he were responsible for this spectacle, eyes clear and mischievous despite the drink. The blue piercing through me.
"Let's go."