“You are so incredibly feminine. It is unbelievable.”
She is taken aback by those words and looks over at him for a moment. He is standing there looking at her in wonder.
“Isn’t every female feminine?” she says.
“No, not like you,” he responds, still looking at her.
She goes on with what she’s doing, removing her sandy shoes. They’d just left the beach and the sound of the surf slapping on shore is audible nearby. The moon is lustrous. Walking in the surf, she’d been shocked by the chilliness of the water, expecting the Atlantic Ocean to be warmer in May.
It felt good to walk into the ocean, slipping out of her shoes just a bit from the shoreline. The waves rushed, hitting her exposed calves with what turned out to be a cold caress. She screamed at the first jolt, but soon got used to the temperature, wading farther in, letting herself be bathed by the luminous moonlight.
Stepping out of the water, she’d had trouble locating her shoes. Away from the water, the moonlight’s reflection died. It was close to pitch black out and her shoes were black, but she’d found them, caked with sand as were her feet. On sandy cushions, she’d walked to the available faucet on the cement walk.
He presses the low set faucet on with his foot and again cold water hits her lower legs and feet, washing the sand away. She taps her shoes against the low surrounding wall to shake out the sand, and then slips them on. They make their way back up the strand, cutting across the grassy lawn and zigzagging between slow moving cars.
They are out to celebrate. Before walking down to the beach, they’d sat on a bench overlooking the ocean and knocked their two plastic cups together. They’d made it; they’d raised their kids. The youngest had now achieved the magic age of 21.
She’d wanted a Superman, a strawberry daiquiri that delivered a vicious kick. It was called Superman because of its red and blue color and it was meant to be “more powerful than a locomotive” and hit you “faster than a speeding bullet.”
“What’s in it?” she asked the girl.
“Rum and grain alcohol,” was the response.
“OK, bring it,” she’d said.
He laughed as he paid for their drinks. Previous to this, they’d stopped for nachos and a strawberry Margarita. Tequila, rum and grain alcohol, yes, a celebration, indeed.
But, music and dancing was missing. After their walk on the beach, they go in search and hit the jackpot. They work their way through the thick cluster of moving bodies and make their way down to the bar of the open air club. On the bandstand, two DJs are rocking it.
Now she can work off all that alcohol. Work it off in sweat. Soon it is dripping into her eyes. She closes them, the better to feel the music. It is surreal, the beat pumps through her. Hands constrain her hips; she disengages them. She wants to be free.