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“You forgot your tools on the kitchen floor,” I say.
“I’ll get them in an hour,” he says, then restarts the abominable machine and rides away, leaving gasoline fumes in his wake.
I head back inside and sit on a comfy couch that has a view of the stinky sprinklers. I’m not going back outside until I see the water go away.
As I sit, I feel some obscene pang of disappointment at the sight of the tools he left behind. Does a part of me want him to stop by to get them when I am home? If so, what is wrong with that part of me? Has Jolene somehow gotten into my head?
No, I’m not being fair to Jolene. When she preached about me needing some D, this isn’t what she meant. Even she knows the difference between getting some dick and getting together with a dick.
Not that I’d go for the former on this vacation either, regardless of how nice the guy attached to it may be. That one casual hookup that forever changed my life was my last. If I have sex, it will have to be as part of a real relationship, and that will not happen on a vacation. The most I could hope for in such a distant zip code is a fling, which is basically an extended hookup.
Either way, even if the plumber/grasscutter were a New Yorker, he wouldn’t be relationship material.
My phone rings.
It’s Reagan. He gushes about how much he loves the camp for a few minutes before he asks how things are going with me.
“Great, kiddo,” I say. “The place is very nice. I’m going to shop for groceries and maybe check out the beach after that.”
“We’re going to the beach later today,” he says excitedly, and he tells me the whole itinerary that precedes the beach trip before launching into a story about the friends he’s already made.
Speaking of friends, I start a conference call with mine as soon as I hang up to thank them again for the incredible gift.
“Send pictures of everything,” Dorothy demands.
“But maybe not the D,” Jolene chimes in. “At least, don’t send them to Mrs. Prude.”
The sprinklers turn off outside.
So he has come through on that. Good. The least he can do.
I say goodbye to my friends and step outside to lounge by the pool.
When I sit down, I feel a pleasant warm breeze on my skin, and the air is clear of sulfur. All I smell is freshly cut grass.
The pill I took earlier must be kicking in too because I feel semi-normal and on the verge of calm.
Which is probably why the alarm I set earlier goes off at that exact moment.
Right. I promised not to be here when he comes to take his tools and finish grass cutting.
Grr. I get to my feet and check the pool temperature.
Warm and perfect, of course. Another reason why I don’t want to leave.
Maybe I don’t have to? Maybe I could stick earplugs in and swim while he makes the noise?
No. I think this may be that crazy part of me scheming to have the plumber see me in my bikini—as payback for his tendency to strut around shirtless. Though pale, I’m in pretty good shape, and I haven’t had the chance to flaunt that fact in years.
Fine. I’ll use the pool later. The ocean might be nicer anyway.
Heading back, I put on my bikini, throw on a summer dress over that, and drive to the local supermarket, where I get only Advil for now—the produce might die if I leave it in the trunk in this heat.
When I step onto the beach, I feel almost giddy. There’s something special about the feeling of warm sand between your toes, the sound of the surf, and the view of the endless blue expanse. Something that clears my headache better than any drug.
Also lifting my mood is a very strange sight: a pair of people sitting on the beach on an honest-to-goodness couch. He looks like a Bedlington Terrier, and she like a Chinese Crested Dog.
Why the couch? How? Who cares? I hope what happened was: someone threw the couch away, and this enterprising couple picked it up and decided it would make a great beach chair. Or they’ve retired their own couch in this way. Hell, for all I know, this might be a Florida tradition, like New Yorkers tying the laces of their old sneakers together and tossing them up to hang from power lines.
