dust dust dust boxcars in dirty streets

She takes her shoes off right away, loosens each heel with the other toe and kicks until one shoe lands almost in the water and the other next to and behind it, just a little, dusting itself with a light layer of heavy sand.

He leaves his shoes on and his hat, he's always wearing a hat she thinks from a sitting spot close to the water while she tests the temperature and turns her shoulders away from him.

They've brought the things they need:

blanket: she spreads it unevenly, folds in the fabric creating combinations of reds and blues meant to stay separate, but he dislikes discontinuity and she's about to sit down but he pulls the two edges toward him and her knees bend and the wrinkles disappear in ripples.

half-full bottle of old ezra, 101 proof: he pushes rocks and mud away from a small space in shallow water and places the bottle inside the space, wet up to the neck, and it sways like it hears a tune and wants to dance.

speaker: he eyes the position of the blanket, the bigger rocks and the smaller rocks, her sitting pale arms wrapped around bare legs, and he puts the speaker down behind her and to the right and takes his time choosing a song specific to the water melancholy and eroding banks.