He bends to the shore and plucks a shell, I recognise you. That round-flat kind with a  spiral curling into the middle. The line wasn’t indented yet, but he knew what it was. Still got  a bit to go, bit more tumbling in the waves will shape you. Has the urge to follow with an  affectionate name, sweet, bink, pal. He presses it back into the sand. Waddles a few steps closer  to the grey water, each crunch feeling…good. Doesn’t know the right word. Wanted salt air  today, got it. Overcast, strong winds after 3pm, but what d’you do? Back in time for dinner later. No one’ll miss me. He wanted the thought to sound nonchalant, humble, in good humour,  knowing the family would laugh and refute. Now, after he’s let it play, it crackles and dies out,  with no walls to bounce off and no one to reply. He coughs, inhales sharp through the nose. Get that sea air. 

Another shell rolls in his palm, revealing its edges, like it's selling itself to him, showing  off its assets. I can see what you once were, but you're not that anymore. Where’s he heard  that? It’s distant, but loud. How old’s the memory? The shell watches him from beneath his  chin, making him a giant troll, moody keeper of the bay. The shell’s spiral is interrupted by  pin-pricked holes, disfigured by barnacles. Vic observes it back, rotating between calloused  fingers. The shell looked different, felt different before the holes and barnacles. Was perceived  differently. Now, it’s no longer what it was. No more smoothness, no more cream, just rough,  mouldy green. Vic is unsure why he wants to keep it longer, hold it close, clean it, maybe talk  to it. Perhaps it’s the spiced rum or perhaps he begins to self-reflect at 62, either-or, he becomes  aware of these ideas: No more admirable athlete, no more saviour policeman, no more  matching-tattoo-best-friend. What’s left is an ungraceful dancer, a retired YouTube addict, a  how-are-you-I’m-good-thanks-catch-up-friend. 

He crouches to the floor of the bay. Wedges the empty bottle in the pebbly sand and  crouches. Sultana-skin fingers rake through the sea’s glassware and pottery, each stroke rattling  the dent of shells like a choir of cicadas. I can see what you were before, but you’re not that  anymore. He examines another shell. Its tip has broken off and purple fur has sprouted across  one edge like a living-room-throw. He imagines, what would it say? He watches it plea, tell me  what I am. Don’t care what you say, I was a shell before. Tell me my drop in worth. If no longer  a shell, what must I be now? A single chuckle from his throat feels more like a throb. He palms  it back to the sea, nudging it toward the rip. Shape you up. Give you a new look, a new version. 

Birthday messages summon Vic’s phone. Pals from his day, mostly. Mostly, as in the  same odd two or three. He always picks up their biannual call with their name, an exclamation  at the end, followed by a nonchalant yet considerate inquiry as to how they are. Ah, Paulie!  How y’doin? He stands, fishes for the phone, takes out a handkerchief, pauses, returns it, then  tries the other pocket. The texts dare him to compare them with last year’s. He coughs, inhales  sharp through the nose, bends a knee and rests a foot atop a large rock. Scrolls. Pretends he  doesn’t mind how the friendships have dropped their emojis, exclamation marks, old-school  h<3arts and second sentences, wishing him a wonderful day instead of confirming their plans  for that night. 

The tide rises behind him as he crouches back down, beach towel draped around his  shoulders and salt drying his skin like a depraved Bram Stoker character. He notices, one-by one, just how many shells are damaged beyond repair, in need of renovation through the next  well. What does Una see when she does this? Got the idea from her, actually. Shell shopping,  she calls it. Bit stupid, he thought, but—now he doesn’t know. On his way back across the  rocky shore, a pinch draws his eyes down. He stops, bends his knee and peers behind at his  foot’s sole, witnessing maroon leak across his pancake skin, and the amber shard of Captain  Morgan sticking out.