Sweating in Slow Motion
3:50 PM, Sunday afternoon.
I’m drinking ice-cold Corona, getting good lit from Michael Marshall Smith’s One of Us, and staring at the sea. The waves are big and robust, heaving up in luxuriant curls before thumping into foamy oblivion. It’s windy and the sky is a wide azure emptiness above me. The sand is warm between my toes. I am calm — and sweating in slow motion.
There are about twenty seagulls sitting in the sand a few paces from me. By ones and twos most have now taken off into the wind. Another lemon chiffon butterfly just fluttered by — hovering over my knee for a moment and then flipping away. The Corona tastes cold and fresh, that little swirl of lime tingling my tongue.
I just realized that I recognized one of the seagulls. He (or she) has a gray speckled head and was just here a few moments ago, staring at me for about fifteen minutes from about ten feet away. If I had some crackers or something I’d toss them to him.
It’s beautiful here: bright, sunny and warm. I’ve bet my mother a quarter that we won’t catch a breath of hurricane Bonnie. What can I say, I’m an optimist. A pretty girl with a ponytail just walked by and stopped for a moment to light a cigarette. She looked like she was doing a difficult math problem in her head and wasn’t pleased with the answer she was getting.
I miss nothing but the perfect person to share this with. And even that yearning is distant and calm.
Must be the beer. Or the view. Or the sleepy salty warmth.
Tonight we are going to have pizza, salads, and wine for dinner. I brought a special Chardonnay down with me — to drink on the beach at sunset with Julia. But she’s not coming and I’d sort of like to save that wine for a memorable evening. I guess everything is memorable, though.
Still, I think it will be Riesling tonight.
— JWR, 8/23/98