The light glistens, amicably, off of the water. I look at it through the pink hues of my fourth rumrunner, then get bored with light and start looking at bikinis again. The faint, salty smell of sea air mixes with the aromas coming from my Romeo Y Julieta cigar and takes me back to easier days when I didn’t bare the weight of the world on my narrow shoulders. A seagull calls in the distance, and everything is so perfect that I don’t even want to shoot it.
Red flops down next to me, dripping sand and surf. She smells more like fish than usual, but I assume it’s just the ocean, and, for once, I allow her to get closer than the restraining order dictates. Her kisses mix with the seawater on her lips, and I realize that a little salt would go well with my drink. While we kiss, I discretely rub her sopping hair around my glass-rim.
Tonight, we’ll eat lobster and drink glass after glass of absinthe. Then we’ll stumble out to a moonlit beach where we will dance, barefoot, on a stretch of sand that is fairly free of jelly-fish. We’ll make love as the tide comes in, and fall asleep under the stars. Tomorrow, we’ll awaken to the stares of families on vacation and gain a new knowledge of public indecency laws. Holding manacled hand in manacled hand, we’ll endure our arrest and subsequent incarceration with a wormwood induced headache, and sand up our asses.
At least that’s the way it should be.
Fucking Ohio rain.