She watched him from behind her book, legs crossed, sunk into the fold out chair, campfire stinging the tips of her toes.

On all fours next to the fire, he rocked forward and back, drool stringing from his mouth, beer cans rattling beneath him.

the water it’s…uh…lapping (he raises a hand, spinning it around on the word) against the banks all along the lake…and…and…

She turns a page. He groans.

It’s…it’s fucking it all up (he raises a limp fist that drops back knuckles first to the ground) these kids…a couch…I found an entire couch at the bottom…

He heaves. Nothing. She looks to the lake and the perfect silver arc the moon is cutting across it.

The houses they’ll all be gone all be gone…they can’t ignore…you can’t ignore it. It’s a violence (he drags his palm through the dirt)…against nature

She stands, wrapping the desert blanket about her. Walking stick in hand, she moves past him. He places a rough hand on her bunion.

She presses the tip of the stick into his rib. He doesn’t notice. She imagines it. The bruise on her neck makes it hard to swallow.

A boat cuts the moonlight. Music breaks the silence. He tips forward and passes out, safely to the side of the fire.