Seventy Eight

At sunset, Stella and Jordan walked along the edge of the ocean, watching the scuba divers wriggle out of their gear, wet rubber squeaking pugnaciously, gritty with sand and gull doings. Jordan pulled from his breast pocket a tiny kitten-face-shaped book, it seemed like, but no? Stella looked on curiously, glee blossoming, turning this way and that as Jordan unveiled, unfolded, unfurled out and out and out a pink, gleaming, razor-sharp machete.