A man in a damp cotton tank top rushed past.
His shoulder struck mine with enough force to turn me sideways on the boards.
He murmured a quick, half-hearted apology that was instantly swallowed by the roar of the surf, but I barely heard him.
My eyes had already locked onto a shape ten yards ahead.
It was a knitted shoulder bag.
The cotton yarn was a faded cream color, heavy and thick.
It was the exact shade of unbleached cotton yarn I had bought sixteen years ago for five dollars.
The bag swung gently against the side of a woman with dark hair who was walking toward the beachside railing.
I stopped dead in the middle of the walking lane.
A young mother pushing a double stroller swerved sharply to avoid me.
The front plastic wheel of the stroller clipped my ankle with a dull scrape.
She clicked her tongue in annoyance and muttered something under her breath, but I could not turn to look at her.
My gaze remained pinned to the bottom corner of that swinging cream-colored bag.
