With charcoal pencils and sketch pad, I choose two bikini girls because their curves have such chiaroscuro.
Their legs shine and their backbones hide in darkness away from the sun.
A man with an Irish brogue approaches to talk to them. I wonder if they’re interested, because if I was that young and hot I’d be. He and his friend both wear casts on their arms; a bar fight gone wrong?
The girls smile but no real laughs. He must think they are the first Americans not impressed with his accent. Or they just don’t understand him.
They emerge from an H.G. Wells novel and sit next to us. He wears navy blue shorts and half boots half shoes; so not into flip-flops.
“His hair was perfect,” as Warren Zevon sang — shaved in the back with a duck tail in front, highlighted with white Ray Bans.
His girlfriend is a pin-up with Betty Page bangs, auburn-dyed hair in a bun. Black and white vertical stripes cover her top and black covers hips and bottom like suits did back then.
Neither venture in the water, why would they mess up their great looks while the sun shines on the sea like a place setting on a glass table?
It seeps must like ghosts out the windows worn down with peeling paint. Maybe 50 years ago it was a nice stop for families who wanted a spot for their beach vacation. A few more steps and the odor gives way to smoke and meat grilling.
cherries and cheeseburgers
I taste the cherries I brought; my maroon treats my only snack as I smell grills whipping me with cheeseburger aromas.
Little pink/orange houses with triangle roofs line up on the coast like Lego’s. With all the rainbow beach umbrellas this scene looks like a perfect jigsaw puzzle.
The surf sounds like heavy approaching Midwest thunderstorms that rarely arrive out here; my only reference to the sound where grass beaches accessorize lakes.
With my boogie board I walk out to the crest of a wave and turn around to fly towards the rocky shore. I walk over stones like hot coals wondering if I’ll ever find smooth spot, and I do.