The sun rose long ago for those few people by the seaside, who have never waited all night, who have never worried the sun might not rise at all.

Those few people by the sea are sitting now, as breakfast plates come ladden to their Manhattan balcony. They look out, as sunshine pearls across that deep blue wet horizon.

We can spy and compare from where we stand, from here we can see it all, the pavement and these neighbours, that one hanging up their underwear on the back of a chair, look there at the cat rubbing its spine three floors above, spy the little boy who talks with his hands and the older brother who longs to hug him. What is it about children, particularly those who do not want to be held, that we like to clasp them so close, so much?

We find ourselves, of course, looking at the couple who eat their breakfast. Are they eating? He is eating.

The other is smiling to himself, his eyes trailing the obituaries, the crosswords, the horoscopes in his newspaper. His eyes find things that feel familiar. Kathleen was his mother's name, and a Caitlyn has just passed away near the river Hudson. He finds his astrological sign and lets out a laugh when he sees the description for a friend, but stops his laughter short, glancing up at the other man, his lover, guiltily.

His lover looks up, curious, and smiles lazily.

'Just hold that happy thought, Peter.'