Along the harbor the city has hung a row of small brass hooks, one for each slip. At dusk the water copies of the boats are lifted off, shaken once like coats, and left to rest. Without a twin staring up at them, the hulls sleep flatter, and the ripples stop practicing their daytime faces.
We asked at the kiosk. “I used to wake up looking busier than I felt,” said a woman who keeps a green dinghy. “Now I put my reflection on peg four and collect it after tea. It comes back with fewer wrinkles.” A man selling rolls from a cart nodded. “Mine always chooses the hook nearest the lamp. It likes a little light, just not a conversation.”
A card from the quay keeper is tied to the rail: Please hang by the stern. Please do not fold. Returns at first light, a little calmer.
By the next morning the ducks had already inspected the empty hooks and approved. They paddled the long way around, so nobody would have to put a copy on in a hurry.