You and her are collecting coquina shells and dropping them in the indigo bucket so they won’t get too homesick. You wonder if they know they are aware of what is happening so you fish one out of the bucket and it crawls a little bit out of its shell. The scattered blue button jellyfish make it difficult to see where the ocean stops and the land begins and her white gauze outfit seems as if it is trying to escape from her body giving into the tugging wind. She says “don’t let the voices of other people override that feeling in the pit of your stomach because that **** is always right” in between sips of her margarita. Her salt-rimmed lips brush your forehead and tell you to come up to the house in twenty minutes because dinner will be ready then. You, her, and your fifty-two shell companions sit in front of the television spooning microwaved beef stroganoff from plastic container to mouth. While she reads her western romance novel you check on the shells and the makeshift beach you’ve created for them and that feeling in the pit of your stomach begins to swell. It feels like you’ve swallowed all of the blue button jellyfish as a public service so everyone can see the clear divide between water and earth. She has fallen asleep in her chair and you know because of her extinguished cigarette hissing in the ashtray that snaps you out of your head.  It’s time to place the shells back on the shore because the separation from land and water is visible from the house. This makes you feel guilty because the jellyfish are gone too, so you sprinkle the shells in the incoming tide, poetically.