The tide that shapes the shore. We are the tide that shapes the shore. Who is we? That has always been the question. Sand moves near-silently under Andrea's shoes, individual grains slipping into the eyelets where his laces don't quite plug the gaps. He'll have to do his best to clean them off sooner rather than later; he can't afford to be seen as anything short of perfect, and that includes leaving sand behind wherever he walks.
He shouldn't have come to this beach; not in such formal attire, not now, not here, where there's surely eyes on him – sunset nears, and after that, the peace of darkness, where he'll blend in with the shadows in a dark, well-tailored suit, for all who don't care to explicitly look for him (which, it seems, is all). This, though, is better than any private beach where he'd feel his family's cold shoulder more than the sun could warm his skin.
Rubbing ink-stained fingertips together, thumb and index, then thumb and middle, and back again, hand behind his back to try to hide what may be perceived as a nervous tick from onlookers. Waves crash on the shore. He wishes he could run into them. That's unbecoming. Andrea stops. Far enough back from the water to keep it from brushing against his leather shoes, but had he stood in this exact spot at high tide, the water would be soaking the legs of his trousers. A shame, to know a place so well, yet not be allowed to indulge in its simple pleasures.
He glances over at another. Not alone. Never alone, it seems. He's learned to let them fill the silence, to speak if they'd like his attention; his blood may not say Del Bosque, but his public behavior always has - and always will.
