Thomas Reddington, with his fingers still prune-y from the steaming bathwater, threw open the glossy windows leading to the veranda draped in nothing but a blue towel and a guitar.  Outside, the cream walls enveloped him, cradling him atop the shiny, porcelain platform and with eyes half crazed and half wondrous, Mr. Reddington warmly shifted his gaze to the sea before him—the reason for buying the damned villa fifteen years ago.  The expanse of water lazily jaunted around the edge of the dentist’s consciousness as he wafted, still lulled by the dreamy cream.  Calmed by the ghostly hand of Mrs. Reddington stoking his hair, as she always used to do, Mr. Reddington let his limp hand fall and strike a chord.  Major, sweet, and unmoving it proved to be.  The waves lapped in as Mr. Reddington remained fixed on the sea (knowing the kettle was soon to screech) and before he turned in, back to his routine, back to his impassive smile that greeted the deluge of recent condolences, he noticed that to him, now, the sea sang not of its unfurling beauty, but rather a mysterious and unpromising utility.  He crawled back inside—his joint pains coming back to him all at once.

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