Yellow Beach

“Surely by now they would have cleared them all,” she said.

“Believe me,” George said as the waiter brought coffees and slid the tab under the sugar bowl, “there were thousands of shells. I guess bits keep rising up.”

A group of noisy young people sat down at the far end of the café, behind George.

“Is that why you’re here?” Celia asked. “Because of the war?”

George lifted his cup and seemed reluctant to talk.

“I’m sorry,” Celia said. “That’s none of my business.”





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