Every summer the stores are full of them. We recognize them by their book jackets.
Gauzy, beguiling, images of best friends, strolling arm in arm, by the sea.
Long-legged beauties, dangling their feet in the refreshingly cool waters.
Promises of clandestine affairs. (Is there another kind?)
Tow-headed children, tanned a nut-brown by the sun, romping in the surf with their dogs.
Families gathered at dusk, dining on old farm tables surrounded by mis-matched chairs and adorned with wild flowers in Mason jars.
So, I’m tempted. Always. But I’m too smart to fall for that stuff. I’m above all that. I wouldn’t be caught dead with one of those books in my hand, a brown paper wrapping notwithstanding.
Blame it on the rain, or lack thereof. Blame it on the backed up septic system. Blame it on anything you want but the fact is I succumbed. And did I ever have fun. Couldn’t be pried from my couch. Just leave me alone and let me ride this beach-read to its inevitable happy ending.
I figure I’ve earned more than one happy-ending book.
I hadn’t planned on admitting my weakness but, last time I looked, having fun wasn’t a weakness.