August is going full-bore today. Not in the fun way, either. He sat in a chair on the other side of the living room and told me I could sit anywhere I wanted. So I curled up in bed with a granola bar.
(My hands just kept on going there, and I wrote granola bard. Now I have this vision of an old hippie standing in the sun with his grey dreads mixing into his beard quoting Shakespeare while he talks to the skull of a baby goat and I want to draw him before it goes away.)
If you could do anything today, what would it be, besides get crumbs in my bed which you know I really don't like?
I would have brunch on the beach, go for a quick swim, finish my book and then come back up, tracking sand all through the house, empty my pockets of shells onto the counter beside the sink, leave all the doors and windows open and the lights on, have a shower, put on a comfy sundress and cook a light supper while drinking a bottle of wine and listening to music.
How is this different from any other day?
I lock my doors. Also I don't really like wine all that much.
So security is a concern, and you've forgone the wine for whiskey and water.
Where are you going with this?
What's keeping you from doing this?
No one's up for brunch. Everyone had breakfast, or is still asleep. I can't cook a light supper while drinking wine or whiskey because there's too much work to be done and as hard as I try to track sand into the house by the time I get up here there isn't much left.
What do you get from that explanation?
Well, clearly my first-world problems consist of having to exist within everyone else's schedule and being too far from the beach! Way to make me feel like a spoiled brat. I want to simplify my life, not resent it, August!
How would you simplify it?
We've had this discussion before. Y'all live up here together. I move down to the beach to my own cabin. I come visit whenever I want. Perfect solution. Okay, are we done? I have to start dinner soon-
Sit down, Bridget.
I get back into his bed, crumbs and wrapper and all and pull the covers up over my head. I give out a mournful sigh and hear him chuckle. I yell asshole just loud enough for him to hear it.
Let's talk about PJ.
Isn't that a conflict of interes-
Only if I'm interested, and I'm not-
Oh, wow. I think I'll go home now. Thanks for the granola barb. (Now I'm picturing him stabbing me all over with pointy sharp things that hurt, like he's filed peanuts and raisins into shivs, which, let's face it, that's pretty much what he's done here.)
Bridget, sit down.
Only if PJ is off the list of appropriate subjects.
Okay, let me do it this way. Did anyone give you a hard time about him?
Yes.
Who?
Caleb.
What did he do?
Sent a dozen alternating threatening and disappointed texts to me and threatened PJ physically.
How did that go?
How do you think? PJ laughed and put him on his ass. May I please go now?
On one condition. If you want to talk about PJ, you know where I am.
And if you want to stop kidding yourself about how much you love me, same. Because you're not the kind of man who sleeps with someone for kicks, but nice try. Again, thanks for the granola scar (yup, ruined for LIFE.).
