Tipping her head back, she drains the last bit of Coca-Cola from the slim green bottle she holds in her right hand. She can picture her mother’s face, grimacing at the sight. It isn’t lady like, her mother would chastise her. That’s what the straw is for, Nora! But the paper always sticks to her lip. Wiggling her toes deeper into the sand, she takes pleasure in the cooler grains buried a few inches beneath the hotter, top layer. This is certainly the life, she muses. Stretched out in the sun, on a comfortable barkcloth-clad chaise lounge, and dressed daringly in her new orange strapless one-piece, she’s spent the last two hours mostly dozing and dreaming, while palm trees sway and blue waves kiss the shore behind her closed eyes.
Her heart sinks. A breeze is picking up, though trying to be playful. Tickling her cheeks, and lifting her bangs impishly off of her forehead. Shuffling the pages of the book she’s only half-heartedly been reading. And the sun, as though suddenly gripped by a fit of regret over its own daring attire, is covering itself up with clouds. She shivers and reaches for her polka-dotted beach towel, draping its warmth around her shoulders as the first drops of rain splash off the end of her nose.
Reluctantly vacating the soft cushions of her chair, she stands and gathers her book and empty bottle, and slips into her sandals. Facing reality from the rusty old roof of her apartment building, she is reminded once again that palm trees and blue waves are a long, long ways away.
Water water everywhere...
Just not here.
She pushes the dishpan, full of sand, under the chaise lounge.
This week’s prompt:
b : dulled in color or appearance by age and use <rusty old boots>
5: hoarse, grating
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