Lemon Soup

On New Year’s Day, we walked to The Neptune, where we sat in a clamshell booth and paged through a laminated menu. When Mr. Neptune returned with the extra-large bowl, two women in the next booth nodded approvingly. That looks like two whole cans. Pies and cakes winked at us through the glass counter. Back outside, the light was good. Our stride was light and zesty. How about fifteen more miles? At Avenue Y., we paused for a car in the crosswalk. Behind the wheel was our eighth grade history teacher, Mr. G., who seemed delighted to see us. Were he not escorting his mother to the cemetery, explained Mr. G. through the window, he would stay to chat; as it was, he couldn’t. When we reached Coney Island, we peeled off our windbreakers. Clouds skimmed the sea in lemony layers. There was not much further to possibly go. The sand smelled delicious: one part sour, one part salt, as if it had been simmering all day.