Alone on the bay on a sallow November day I roamed the sand and stones. I returned to the rutted driveway and shaggy red rug in a cottage over the dunes, lit a fire and waited for the rent to run out.

You're going to get rid of that car, right? the landlord had asked.

Yes.

You've only got a couple more days.

She was a brisk slap of perfume and gray hair. 

I would slip her tarnished house key beneath the window and drive that green unregistered Dart to Southampton's landfill. Its gates were locked on a Sunday, and I walked away.

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Nothing is prettier than Long Island, I told him. Just wait until all the people leave and the beaches -- knotted tight all summer with towels and canvas chairs -- can finally breathe. Wait until the wealthy silhouettes stop clogging the sunset. Wait until you're the only one on the narrow road tracing a thin shoreline,  driving over drifts of sand. Through gaps in the scrub rosa rugosa a warm sunset skips. Wait until the pavement ends and wild dune grass sways. Scramble toward the surf and stand below seagulls bouncing on a current over the endless sea.