Daedalus and Icarus are on the beach.
Icarus: …where the tuna salad went, Pops, you can’t tell me that there was half a Rubbermaid of tuna salad and it just went missing, do you think I’m still a toddler, that you can pass off these pathetic…
Daedalus only half listening. Shell in his hand, calculating azimuth by triangulation.
Icarus gives up, stalks back to the beach hut; the hut their prison, their private hell, their pied a terre in loneliness.
Daedalus returns to the beach hut, ignores the contents of the Frigidaire spread out accusingly on the kitchen table.(Among the contents: an empty Rubbermaid that lately contained tuna salad.) Daedalus enters a screened sun porch whose most striking feature is a four-by-five sheet of plywood with a roll of butcher’s paper tacked to it. Stares at the blueprint inscribed thereon; fifteen minutes later, adds three peremptory strokes. Satisfied, Daedalus returns to the kitchen, retrieves a beer from the countertop. Drinks, warm.
Rewarding yourself? Icarus in the doorway. Tone: tart, accusatory.
Daedalus mumbles. Solved the Bernoulli equation for generation of aerodynamic lift.