The Veil

When the tide lay under the clouds of an afternoon and gave them back to themselves oilier a little and filled with anonymous boats, I used to sit and drink at the very edge of it, where light passed through the liquids in the glasses and threw itself on the white drapes of the tables, resting there like clarity itself, you might think, right where you could put a hand to it. As drink gave way to drink, the slow unfathomable voices of luncheon made a window of ultraviolet light in the mind, through which one at last saw the skeleton of everything, stripped of any sense or consequence, freed of geography and absolutely devoid of charm; and in this originating brightness you might see somebody putting a napkin against his lips or placing a blazing credit card on a plastic tray and you'd know. You would know goddamn it. And never be able to say.