We met there often. The forgotten eaves shadowed our business. Chipped paint crunched beneath our feet, and we glanced nervously over our shoulders. Nobody there. No one was ever there. The exchange of goods then commenced in a most professional manner. A manner, I might add, completely tucked away in that shadowed alley, beyond which, I might add, one could hear the ocean lapping, sucking away the grist and spitting it back--so peaceful. Quick hands were ours. And I suppose we formed a sort of bond. Not friends, but something. The peeling walls resonated the quick whispers, the locking latches, zipping zippers. Of course, by this time, all these nervous sounds found remembering familiarity in our brains. Nervous we were. But we didn't know that. The business proceeded in a most professional manner.