[ Oh. Sure, okay. He takes the nub of charcoal, rolling it in his fingers. The flare of anger makes him reconsider the lighthouses—now they look defiant, born of resentment. This is what you want? Well, here you go.

But that's art for you. ] I'm guessing it won't surprise you to hear their lips are as tight as their, uh, purse strings. [ He gives the charcoal a light toss, but his gaze stays with the other man. ] What's a day like here?