In March, in Miami, on the azure sea, a white yacht drifted with the waves. From afar, it looked like a white waterbird gliding between the azure sea and the blue sky.
Link lay on the deck of the yacht, his upper body exposed, wearing only a pair of beach shorts and a pair of sunglasses. His skin shimmered with a metallic sheen under the sun, and his muscles, solid and powerful, appeared as though they were cast from iron.
Sitting opposite him was James, who had just boarded the yacht, wearing a baseball cap and also shirtless, showing off a plump expanse of white flesh. The waistband of his pants was tightly cinched around his belly, which almost seemed to spill onto the deck.
"Link, I've made up my mind to go to Los Angeles with you, New York is fine too," James said.
"It's too late, I don't want to take you now," Link replied, without looking up.
