Whoever You Are, Honey

In the middle of the night, the stretch of sparsely occupied beachfront properties lining Potbelly Beach Road resembles a row of gapped teeth. This is what Mitty has always imagined, at least. If a sailor offshore were awake and looking out the window of his cabin, just as he was traveling through Monterey Bay, specifically along the coast of Santa Cruz, and even more specifically New Brighton State Beach, he might notice the black pockets where the empty homes sit, broken up by the warm glow of an illuminated living room, and perhaps think of a child’s gummy mouth.

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Over the years, a number of these houses have been sold and converted to vacation rentals and summer stays, leaving Mitty and Bethel as the last remaining permanent residents in the neighborhood. They bemoan this change, of course. In a way, as the sole locals, this protest has become their responsibility. But still, there is a small part of Mitty that takes pleasure in the surprise of these revolving tenants. When she steps out for her nighttime walks, she’s exhilarated by the inability to predict which properties will be busied, which transparent evening she’ll find herself watching, which not-quite-neighbor she’ll get to know without ever having spoken to them.

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Outside, the eucalyptus trees whisper. The sand clenches beneath her bare feet. The houses are standing on stilts...