Sometimes I wonder how many stabs at love and romance we actually get, as if a great big score card in the sky keeps track of every tragic break-up, one-niter and near miss.
As I dig my bare feet into the sands of Fire Island, I often lost interest in the paperback beside me and stare. Considering the 4th of July is this weekend, the early morning brought nothing too noteworthy to report: a few well-packed Speedos, a volleyball match, a very cute guy and his dog-a big dog, something of strength and substance, catching his ball, tossed into the waves.
"Zuni, get back here!" his owner called. I watched the dog run from the water, playfully, finding a spot to dig. Picking up my book, I was lost amidst the twisting plot, when a shower of sand rained in my eyes, not only once, but twice, the second heavier then the first.
"Zuni!" the guy shouted again, grabbing the dog's loose skin from the folds of its fur. "Oh geeze!" he yelped, watching me shake out my book and pat my face. "I'm awfully sorry," he winced, handing me back my vintage RayBans, which had dropped.
"It's quite alright. He's a dog. He digs," I replied, with a smile. I watched him push the ball into the pup's face ,diverting his attention from the enormous hole near my feet. "He is super cute and well trained," I joked as the dog returned to tossing sand out of the hole.
" Does that go for his owner as well?" he remarked coolly.
I didn't know if it was the shadow that the early sun cast over his handsome face or the breaking rush of the waves, but firecrackers went off in my stomach. I liked it. "Well, that depends on how well you sit and stay."
He winked, taking the lead, and found a spot beside me. So, maybe my scorecard might be filled to the brim, but I would like to think that, if we add up all the homeruns, grand slams and extra innings, the season would look good enough for another win. "Up for volleyball?" "I haven't played since, well, forever," I replied. " Just for fun. We'll toss the balls around," he said, rummaging around in his backpack. A volleyball and dog toys soon filled his hands.
I laughed at his choice of words, but that's the writer in me. For a moment it felt very "Where the Boys Are," circa '64,, with this dashing fella on my blanket. My swim trunks were not polka-dotted, but a fantastic high cut waist style, found in a gem of a thrift shop in California. "Just for fun," he repeated, "unless you're keeping score."
Grabbing my water bottle and sunglasses, I took hold of his outstretched hand. "This time," I whispered with a grin, "I wont be"......
