Since no two claws are quite the same size he’d rather wash his right in the fountain that adorns the plaza. Gnarled and enlarged it catches water in pools he has to turn upside down to drain. To wash here with the left would seem… presumptuous? Like showing up overdressed to a party. This can't be nearly as bad as showing up underdressed but as for his left he’ll settle to lather in a little glass dish, preferably in the shape of a clamshell. How thoughtful he feels! In the fountain he leaves coins that rest like favors that hatch like eggs. Caviar, he shudders at the thought, at the evil playing peekaboo behind the word’s three syllables. And the way tartar brings to mind bad teeth always put him off it. Another sound he finds equally evil: the crunch of autumn leaves or cartilage as it reaches him. It reaches me too. He looks around the plaza to where men crack shells on a cellar stair and I wait tables somewhere within. His violin-like carapace doesn’t sweat but it certainly feels more brittle. He pulls his coat tighter and his plates creak a styrofoam chord in the cool air.