The Beach

Squat, unshaven, full of gas, Joseph Samuels, former clerk in four large cities, out of work, waits in the darkened underpass. In sanctuary, out of reach, he stares at the fading light outside: the rain beginning: hears the tide that drums along the empty beach. When drops first fell at six o'clock, the bathers left. The last car's gone. Sun's final rays reflect upon the streaking rain, the rambling dock. He takes an object from his coat and holds it tightly in his hand (eyes on the stretch of endless sand) . And then, in darkness, cuts his throat.