A sound awakened me. It was not quite daylight. Cecelia was moving around getting dressed. I looked at my watch.

“It’s 5 am. What are you doing?”

“I want to watch the sun come up. I love sunrises!”

“No wonder you don’t drink.”

“I’ll be back. We can have breakfast together.”

“I haven’t been able to eat breakfast for 40 years.”

“I’m going to watch the sunrise, Hank.”

I found a capped bottle of beer. It was warm. I opened it, drank it. Then I slept.

At 10:30 am there was a knock on the door.

“Come in. ...”

It was Bobby, Valerie and Cecelia.

“We just had breakfast together,” said Bobby.

“Now Cecelia wants to take her shoes off and walk along the beach,” said Valerie.

“I’ve never seen the Pacific Ocean before, Hank. It’s so beautiful!”

“I’ll get dressed. . . .”

We walked along the shoreline. Cecelia was happy. When the waves came in and ran over her bare feet she screamed. “You people go ahead,” I said, “I’m going to find a bar.” “I’ll come with you,” said Bobby. “I’ll watch over Cecelia,” Valerie said. . ..

We found the nearest bar. There were only two empty stools. We sat down. Bobby drew a male. I drew a female. Bobby and I ordered our drinks.

The woman next to me was 26, 27. Something had wearied her—her eyes and mouth looked tired—but she still held together in spite of it. Her hair was dark and well-kept. She had on a skirt and she had good legs. Her soul was topaz and you could see it in her eyes. I laid my leg against hers. She didn’t move away. I drained my drink.

“Buy me a drink,” I asked her.

She nodded to the barkeep. He came over.

“Vodka-7 for the gentleman.”

“Thanks. . . .”

“Babette.”

“Thanks, Babette. My name’s Henry Chinaski, alcoholic writer.”

“Never heard of you.”

“Likewise.”

“I run a shop near the beach. Trinkets and crap, mostly crap.”

“We’re even. I write a lot of crap.”

“If you’re such a bad writer, why don’t you quit?”

“I need food, shelter and clothing. Buy me another drink.”

Babette nodded to the barkeep and I had a new drink.

We pressed our legs together.

“I’m a rat,” I told her, “I’m constipated and I can’t get it up.”

“I don’t know about your bowels. But you’re a rat and you can get it up.”

“What’s your phone number?”

Babette reached into her purse for a pen.

Then Cecelia and Valerie walked in.

“Oh,” said Valerie, “there are those bastards. I told you. The nearest bar!”

Babette slid off her stool. She was out the door. I could see her through the blinds on the window. She was walking away, on the boardwalk, and she had a body. It was willow slim. It swayed in the wind and was gone.