The sweat down our backs dries deliciously in the cool rooms where the file servers keep accounts. He provides us with power. Days that turn like a miller's wheel, nights the air in our lungs. A car horn blasts. A window goes down.
Someone yells something about sleep.
Shut up, someone replies. You go to hell. Why don't you come here and make me. What isn't for sale is closed for the winter. The trawlers slap against the wharf, huddled three deep, and the men come by to drink and talk, fiddle with their nets awhile, not one of them under forty.