One of my companions loves lobsters. Not to eat, but for their unsung sophistication. She tells me how they link claws as they walk along the seabed, like lovers holding hands. How, when they meet, they run a claw over bumpy backs to find out each other's age and where they grew up. They are monogamous and live well into their fifties. 'I feel uncomfortable eating anything older than me,' she says, and I don't feel like lobster tonight.
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