It’s a slow day, but Sundays always are. The town is busy. Millions of years ago, it was underwater; now, it’s bonedry and a hive of supermarkets and charity shops. Nature reduced to nurturing the meek and mild—that kinda thing. We drink coffee, and people watch. The people here are very strange, but then again, it’s a strange place. They try to act normal, but it’s beyond them entirely. Men are always the weirder ones. Men in their forties. Pretending to act casual and only succeeding in drawing attention to themselves with every breath. We sit on the first floor of a coffee shop situated in a clothing store, our chairs overlooking the entrance. I’m drinking an Americana. I wish I had a muffin of some sort to go with it, but there’s too much sugar in my diet as it is, so I go without. She’s drinking some concoction with soya milk. Or is it goat’s milk? I can’t remember. Well, I do, but I don’t. Her hair is long. It’s the longest hair I’ve ever seen. I like the smell of it. Does this make me weird? Probably. But not as weird as the men beneath us as they move about drawing attention to themselves with ease. Her hair reaches to her hips. Rolling our cigarettes, we observe the clouds rolling over distant fields. They remind me of Moby Dick. I’ve never read Moby Dick, but they remind me of it anyway. Whales. Greyness. Purgatory. The cigarettes she rolls are on the thin side, but she’s only small, after all. Rising from my seat, a sudden wave of lightheadedness overcomes me. The people around us become bending trees in a prehistoric wind, and as my hand reaches for the table, the squark of birds from outside cuts through me like a knife through a knob of butter.