Beach House

Get up around ten, bike ride, coffee.  Shave your legs, change into your bathing suit, ride to the beach.  Slather on sunscreen.  A half hour on your back, a half hour on your stomach.  More sunscreen.  Take a walk down the beach, either heading east to Moonstone, or west to the rock pier to watch the fishermen.  Splash in the spray, take a dip in the cruel cold waters.  Watch the throngs of children, busy as ants in their sand construction, happy in the simple bliss of digging and singing.  Come back to the blanket, flop down and turn for another hour and a half.  Fall asleep and wake only when the pangs of hunger set in.  Get up, shake the sand out of your shorts and shoes.  Fold the towels and blankets with military flips and flaps.  Bike back home, stopping at the deli for thick sandwiches of turkey, roast beef, chopped liver, lettuce, mayo and honey mustard.  A bag of Cape Cod Sea Salt and Vinegar chips, a can of Arizona ice tea.  Ride the rest of the way home with a brown bag balanced on the handlebars.  Sit on the deck, making a damp spot spread on the picnic table bench with your wet bathing suit.  Skin salty with ocean spray and slippery with sunscreen.  Sand between your toes and every other crevice of your body.  Sun drenched and tired, ravenously hungry.  Crumple up and throw out the deli paper and brown bags, have a cigarette or smoke a joint.  Crash on the couch, or maybe make some love first, then snooze out for a couple of hours.  Get up and shower, luxurious warm water and coconut shampoo, scrub away the beach residue and watch your tan emerge.  Fresh denim cutoffs, a white T-shirt and sandals.  Skin warm and tight from the sun.  No need for any makeup other than a swipe of lipstick.  Run out for iced coffee.  Sit around and talk, wonder about dinner.  The other night it was shish kabobs, hunks of beef marinated for hours in one housemate’s secret Teriyaki concoction, strung on skewers with onions and peppers and served with another housemate’s rice and bean salad.  Or perhaps run to the lobster place on the corner and get 1 1/4-pounders for all, and hit the farmers market for sides of sweet corn and red potatoes.  Steam it all and serve with tons of drawn butter and white wine.  Or head out to Narragansett or Newport for the evening.  Find a bayside restaurant and have fish and chips and beer.  Watch the sun set and listen to jazz.  Top the evening off with ice cream, drive home, five of you packed in the car, singing Sting’s version of “Little Wing.”  Stay up late talking and playing cards, then retire with your lover to your alotted bed, tear it up and down a couple hours, and fall asleep breathing in the humid air and the perfume of the ocean until morning, when you get up at ten, bike ride, coffee…


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