Jack is seventy and bears the marks of his vest.
As often happens, he had fallen asleep in the sun.
Jack is standing still among the parasols with two thoughts buzzing through his head.
The first is that there’s not enough ice in his fruit cocktail. The second is that the sun is democratic.
It beats down on everyone’s head, without looking anyone in the face: young and old, men and women, ugly and beautiful.
Unlike the first, this second thought brings him a bit of relief, and for a moment, he even manages to forget his shoulders that are burning up.