As the asshole passes by me, my nose detects starfruit, ocean salt, and wax. Hmm. When combined with the way he looks, the last two scents make me think he might be a surfer in his spare time.
But aren’t surfers more chill? His personality is what most people think pit bulls are like, and Chihuahuas—though those unfair dog stereotypes are breedist.
“Wait, you forgot your tools!” I shout, but he doesn’t hear me.
Great. This means I’ll probably have to see him again.
I drag in a calming breath and finish the last of his breakfast, since I might as well. When the food is gone, I swallow my last Advil and walk out onto the screened porch to examine the giant pool facing the lake.
Wow.
Even if I weren’t minutes away from the beach, this vacation would still be amazing.
Maybe I can actually relax for the first time in seven years?
I plop on a nearby chaise, but instead of relaxing, my mind starts replaying the interaction with the hot plumber, and I wonder if I overreacted. Maybe some period-induced irritability?
Oh, well. At least I have my hormones as an excuse. What is his?
Suddenly, an annoying noise reaches my ears. It’s a loud buzzing that reminds me of a giant vacuum cleaner from hell.
Speaking of hell, why am I smelling sulfur?
I scan my surroundings. There’s a sprinkler running on the right side of the lawn, but those aren’t that loud.
Then I see where the noise is coming from. The plumber is riding some hellish machine over the grass, still shirtless.
He’s either cutting the grass or filming an ad for said machine—and I suddenly feel like buying one.
I guess he’s more than just a plumber.
“Hey!” I shout.
No reaction.
“Dude!”
Nope. He’s got headphones on, so between that and the noise, I doubt he can hear himself think… assuming he ever engages in that activity.
I open the door of the porch screen and wave my arms.
He finally stops the racket and takes his headphones off.
“Can you not do that?” I shout.
His eyes narrow. “Not do what? Exist?”
I roll my eyes. “You can exist all you want, but maybe without so much noise?”
“Oh.” He looks down at his mount. “Is the grass cutting bothering you?”
Was that sarcasm? “Yes! It would bother anyone with ears. Any chance you can do it some other time?”
He sighs. “The original plan was to do this before you checked in, but we know how that turned out.”
I match his sigh. “So… is that a ‘no?’”
He blows out an annoyed breath. “When would it be more convenient for you, Your Majesty?”
“Does it always sound like that?” I ask.
He gives me an irritated bob of the head.
I look at the perfectly reasonable height of the grass. “Can you do it after I leave?” A time he most likely awaits with great anticipation.
The guy scans the grass like he’s never seen it before. “If I don’t do it soon, someone from the HOA will moan, and they’re much more annoying than you.”
Is that a veiled compliment or an indictment of the HOA?
“Maybe you could do it while I’m away,” I suggest.
He wipes a few beads of sweat off his torso in an extremely distracting way. “And when will that be?”
I banish sweat-licking fantasies from my mind. “I’ll need to go get groceries soon.” Including more Advil, because my headache is just getting worse and worse, though my cramps have eased up somewhat. My uterus seems to be happier at the moment. No idea why.
“When is soon?”
“An hour?” I set a timer on my phone.
“Fine,” he says.
“Great. Now… do you know what that awful smell is?”
He sniffs the air before a hint of a smile touches his eyes. “The one reminiscent of rotten eggs?”
I nod.
“The sprinklers here use well water,” he says. “This is what it smells like.”
As if to confirm his words, wind blows in my direction from the sprinkler and tests my gagging reflex.
“Any chance you can run the sprinklers some other time?” I ask.
Do I sound entitled? If so, I blame him for that too—in that, he brings out the worst in me.
He curls his upper lip. “If it will suit Your Majesty, I’ll run the sprinklers before sunrise.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“Will that be all?” he asks, all but daring me to tack on something else.
“You forgot your tools on the kitchen floor,” I say.
“I’ll get them in an hour,” he says, then restarts the abominable machine and rides away, leaving gasoline fumes in his wake.
I head back inside and sit on a comfy couch that has a view of the stinky sprinklers. I’m not going back outside until I see the water go away.
As I sit, I feel some obscene pang of disappointment at the sight of the tools he left behind. Does a part of me want him to stop by to get them when I am home? If so, what is wrong with that part of me? Has Jolene somehow gotten into my head?
No, I’m not being fair to Jolene. When she preached about me needing some D, this isn’t what she meant. Even she knows the difference between getting some dick and getting together with a dick.
Not that I’d go for the former on this vacation either, regardless of how nice the guy attached to it may be. That one casual hookup that forever changed my life was my last. If I have sex, it will have to be as part of a real relationship, and that will not happen on a vacation. The most I could hope for in such a distant zip code is a fling, which is basically an extended hookup.
Either way, even if the plumber/grasscutter were a New Yorker, he wouldn’t be relationship material.
My phone rings.
It’s Reagan. He gushes about how much he loves the camp for a few minutes before he asks how things are going with me.
“Great, kiddo,” I say. “The place is very nice. I’m going to shop for groceries and maybe check out the beach after that.”
“We’re going to the beach later today,” he says excitedly, and he tells me the whole itinerary that precedes the beach trip before launching into a story about the friends he’s already made.
Speaking of friends, I start a conference call with mine as soon as I hang up to thank them again for the incredible gift.
“Send pictures of everything,” Dorothy demands.
“But maybe not the D,” Jolene chimes in. “At least, don’t send them to Mrs. Prude.”
The sprinklers turn off outside.
So he has come through on that. Good. The least he can do.
I say goodbye to my friends and step outside to lounge by the pool.
When I sit down, I feel a pleasant warm breeze on my skin, and the air is clear of sulfur. All I smell is freshly cut grass.
The pill I took earlier must be kicking in too because I feel semi-normal and on the verge of calm.
Which is probably why the alarm I set earlier goes off at that exact moment.
Right. I promised not to be here when he comes to take his tools and finish grass cutting.
Grr. I get to my feet and check the pool temperature.
Warm and perfect, of course. Another reason why I don’t want to leave.
Maybe I don’t have to? Maybe I could stick earplugs in and swim while he makes the noise?
No. I think this may be that crazy part of me scheming to have the plumber see me in my bikini—as payback for his tendency to strut around shirtless. Though pale, I’m in pretty good shape, and I haven’t had the chance to flaunt that fact in years.
Fine. I’ll use the pool later. The ocean might be nicer anyway.
Heading back, I put on my bikini, throw on a summer dress over that, and drive to the local supermarket, where I get only Advil for now—the produce might die if I leave it in the trunk in this heat.
When I step onto the beach, I feel almost giddy. There’s something special about the feeling of warm sand between your toes, the sound of the surf, and the view of the endless blue expanse. Something that clears my headache better than any drug.
Also lifting my mood is a very strange sight: a pair of people sitting on the beach on an honest-to-goodness couch. He looks like a Bedlington Terrier, and she like a Chinese Crested Dog.
Why the couch? How? Who cares? I hope what happened was: someone threw the couch away, and this enterprising couple picked it up and decided it would make a great beach chair. Or they’ve retired their own couch in this way. Hell, for all I know, this might be a Florida tradition, like New Yorkers tying the laces of their old sneakers together and tossing them up to hang from power lines.
With a smile on my face, I walk up to feel the ocean temperature.
It’s warm, but there’s a big problem if I want to swim: the waves are way overzealous. Also, now that I’m paying attention, I see a red flag nearby and a sign below it that says, “Swimming not recommended today. No lifeguard on duty.”
Oh, well. Soaking in the rays might be all the relaxation I need.
Spreading my towel, I sprawl on it, close my eyes, and pretend that I am also sitting on a couch… which is when I drift off to sleep.
Why is my mouth so crunchy, why am I so hot, and what is that smell?
I open my eyes and find myself face down in the sand, with the towel covering me like a blanket, instead of staying under me as a loyal beach towel should.
Crap. I have enough sand in my mouth to make a small castle.
Feeling very ladylike, I spend the next few minutes vigorously spitting. Next, I look for some source of water so I can rinse my mouth and figure out the source of the weird smell. If it’s well water again, I might just use it to rinse out my mouth, smell or not.
Nope. It’s not sprinklers, but something weirder. A cow is standing nearby, and the smell is coming from a patty it’s made. And yes, I do mean a regular cow, the type that goes “moo,” not a sea cow, as in a manatee, an animal this area is actually famous for. Thanks to the coloring and the sad eyes, she looks just like a giant Basset Hound, only without the droopy ears, and with horns.
I rub my eyes, which is a mistake because now they also feel sandy. Could the cow be a hallucination brought on by heatstroke?
But then why is the couple on that couch looking at her too? I saw them before I fell asleep.
More importantly, could the cow give me some milk for a mouth rinse?
I cringe as the scene plays out in front of my eyes: I walk up to the cow, grab her udder—which is basically a boob—and jerk it into my mouth.
Yeah. No, thanks. Maybe if I had stayed in school and become a veterinarian like I’d always wanted, I’d have experience with cows and would be able to do something like that, but not with my pet groomer accolades. The cow would kick me in the head—and be right in doing so—and then I would die and become one of those “only in Florida” stories on the news.
Belatedly, I recall the bathroom I saw near where I parked, so that is where I go to rinse my mouth.
Except a sign over the sink says, “Danger. Non-potable water, do not drink.”
Hmm. Clearly, you’re allowed to wash your hands with this water, so the big question is: would rinsing my mouth be closer to drinking or handwashing?
Fuck it. I cup some water and rinse my mouth, then my eyes.
Ah. So much better. Hopefully, I didn’t just get pink eye and cholera.
I return to my towel just in time to witness a mustachioed Bull Terrier-looking dude depositing the cow poop into a big bag, the way dog owners do for their charges.
Weird. The Bull Terrier then leads the cow away—before anyone gets the chance to ask any obvious questions.
My theory is that it was one of those Kobe beef cows—no relation to the famous basketball player. Allegedly, those cows are treated like royalty, receiving beer, massages, and probably pedicures too. If any of that is true, why not throw in a stroll on the beach?
Pondering this question some more, I sit on my towel and admire the wavy ocean.
Hmm. Despite the no-swim sign, there are surfers in the distance.
In fact, one of them even has a Golden Retriever on the surfboard with him. How cute is that?
I sigh wistfully. Reagan would have a blast if he saw this. He loves videos of dogs doing all sorts of fun things, from singing to typing. He’d also make a good argument for going for a swim… and not being a chicken.
Maybe I’ll just walk in until the water is up to my knees. That way, I can get my face wet and cool off a little. Surely that should be safe.
Gingerly, I approach the water and wade in until my ankles are wet—which is when a huge wave comes out of nowhere.
Whoosh!
My world spins as I’m knocked off my feet.
I flail my arms as water surrounds me on all sides, but it’s to no avail. The water drags me back into the ocean, and my life plays before my eyes as I prepare to drown.