I rake the sand so you will think you are the first

At seven I hook the rake to the tractor and erase four hundred footprints from yesterday: those of the ones who ran at dawn, those of the ones who sat down to argue about money.

I leave the sand smooth, freshly made.

At nine you arrive with your parasol, plant it on the cleanest patch of the beach and sit down convinced you got up early.

I am already at kilometre two. And behind you comes another with his towel, convinced of the same thing.