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When there is nothing else, there is work. After falling into the ocean, Gabe has stopped sleepwalking but that's the least of his problems now. Everything feels like a punishment, even when he wishes he could feel safe. The ocean is half a place of comfort and also a void of mystery. He doesn't know if accepting that he is a siren means he'll have mastered his nature or succumbed to it.
But at least there's work. There are still plates and glasses to wash, counters to wipe down, his hands blistered ad aching. He knows split knuckles and dishpan hands, the endless reel of work that propels him on beyond his own confused thoughts.
It's where Sunday finds him. Not at church or taking a day of rest. At work, at the bar. Sometimes he thinks the bartenders hear more confessions than any priests in town.
But at least there's work. There are still plates and glasses to wash, counters to wipe down, his hands blistered ad aching. He knows split knuckles and dishpan hands, the endless reel of work that propels him on beyond his own confused thoughts.
It's where Sunday finds him. Not at church or taking a day of rest. At work, at the bar. Sometimes he thinks the bartenders hear more confessions than any priests in town.
