Scavenger reef

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"Funerals work best in the rain," said Robert Natchez.

"It isn't a funeral," said Ray Yates. "It's a memorial service." Yates licked another swath of salt from the rim of his glass and sucked on his tequila. He was slightly drunk, and increasingly fascinated by the wet circles his iced glass left on the varnished table at Raul's. Natchez ignored him.

"The gray sky, the black umbrellas-humble separate shelters against the damp-"

"You're a pompous pain in the ass," said Yates.

"Separate shelters," Natchez murmured. "I like that."

"It stinks," Yates told him. He wiped his moist hand on the front of his shirt. The shirt had a pattern of washed-out palm fronds and small flamingoes with the pink faded from their plumage.

"Then too," Natchez went on, "there's the way the rain softens the ground, the way the earth yields, squishes underfoot. Gentle or horrifying? Embracing the dead body, or pulling it down like-"

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