He fingers the gauze curtain, watches the neon strobe from the pawn shop flicker into the room.
"It's different here," he says to the figure in the bed. "Back home, we had thunderheads as big as skyscrapers. The only water we had was what fell from the sky." He laughs quietly, "So I joined the navy."
He sits, strokes her arm, the curve of her back. "Sometimes you taste like the sea."
He turns. "I follow him sometimes. God, back in my day, he was something, wasn't he?"
She doesn't say anything. She can't. He drained her dry hours ago.
Still in a weird mood. The title's probably misleading. If you can find anything of great significance in this, please tell me.