THOSE LITTLE LEGS AND AWFUL HANDS

NIGHT had fallen. A man who was staying at the Grand Hotel walked to the beach, lit a cigar, opened a black umbrella, and leaned back in a canvas beach chair, holding the cigar in one hand and the umbrella in the other. I wanted to ask him, why the umbrella, but I was too timid. Then, I heard him say, “Those little legs and awful hands, will I never be rid of them?” I patted my legs, then looked at my hands, and knew that he had not meant me, and certainly not himself, but maybe another, someone he might have hated, or even loved. But down the beach, a woman, wearing very large mittens, was coming towards him, rapidly, with baby steps. He jumped up from the beach chair, tossed his cigar, and with his umbrella began to run; he ran and ran, trying to escape, as if he could ever escape.