Her Eyes All Swimming Pool Blue

The second Corona is better than the first, even if it is from a can; it’s colder, sweeter, and flush with lime.

The Florida sun is playing hide-and-seek with the billowing cumulonimbus clouds. When it breaks through, the air grows hot and thick like steam. I watch the great, white clouds race across the piercing blue, drifting away from itself and evaporating before my eyes.

The constant roar of surf makes a fine white noise, punctuated solely by the occasional gust of wind, seagull’s cry, and child’s laughter.

I pull my cap over my eyes and fall gently into the sounds, unsure of the intersection between sleeping and waking life.

Finally, I rise slowly from my chair, peel of my sunglasses and hat, and tread lightly into the surf.

The water is cold at first. I push steadily deeper, then dive in. I swim slowly to a sand bar, then walk across it into deeper, larger waves.

I lay there floating on my back, staring out to sea as the waves crest, turn to foam, and roar overhead. I relish the feeling of turbulence as it rolls over me.

As I turn towards shore, I think (as I often do in these moments) of the life I’ve left behind: concrete, cubicles, and cabs. I remember (as I often do in these moments) that this place — the beautiful, warm, relaxing places — are always here, even when I’m not.

I imagine myself in a crowded, windowless conference room, rejoin myself here in the ocean, then wonder all over again why it is that we do what we do: toil endless hours in exchange for these precious few moments.

Abbi waves me in from the shore. I step awkwardly from the waves, wiping water from my eyes and knocking it from my ears. She hands my a pink drink with a cherry on top.

“It’s a Rum Runner,” she says smiling behind her great, white beach hat. “I figured you should have at least one umbrella drink before you leave.”