|Frank Stella's Grape Island, Courtesy of Frank Stella|
We lie and wait, three bodies in the sand, warming, browning, sending out our scents, turning gently. From inside the hut comes the comforting clatter and scrape; our mouths water. Then the song that tells of heat and rising, coiled with the incense drift of cinnamon across the sand. This pattern is pure pleasure now, under the beating sun, as we turn ourselves, stare at the gaudy slats of the hut until they blur, in a cloud of sweet expectation. Then the brown feet, the laugh, the paper plate and finally the doughy glory of three mouths chewing cinnamon buns.