So the next time you hear “Dixie,” whether as a melody or a brand of paper cups, remember: someone, somewhere, on a night in mid-October, swallowed its spit-drenched display so you wouldn’t have to. Or perhaps so you would feel it, too, lodged in your throat.
Months turned, and the pier changed. The bulbs shone brighter; the pier’s posts became polished with the touch of tourists hoping for miracles. People came from other towns, following threads of rumor, to see Dixie make a tangled, private history disentangle and float away in the sea air. They left thanking her with clean faces and hands heavier with tips. Dixie’s hands, however, began to carry an emptier map. -SWALLOWED-Dixie-s Spit-Drenched Display -10.13...