LEONARD WHITTIER STOPPED walking. The white-haired woman about thirty paces in front of him called back, “What’s the matter? Why are you stopping Leonard? What are you looking at?”
The seventy-year-old observed the mass of humanity crowding the beach. Bright colored umbrella’s mushroomed under the scorching sun, failing to prevent major sunburns. White noise of children’s laughter blended into the soothing softness of ocean sounds. He’d fall asleep easy, if he had a chance.
The beach was uncommonly crowded on this mid-summer day. He swept his eyes over throngs of scantily clad sun worshipers. Some lay flat, many sat up with silly expressions on their faces, and others failed at attempts to look alluring.
His wife joined him, “I told you to put your teeth in before our walk. What are you looking at?”
She followed his gaze. “Ah, I see her. Close your mouth Leonard; you’ll begin to drool in a minute.”
“Do you see that, Elizabeth?”
“Yes, Leonard. I see her. Times have changed. She must be about thirty-five years old. Looks like she’s getting ready to go home. And WOW! I’ll never get used to seeing a woman do that in public.”
Leonard’s wife watched the person in question maneuver under a cape-like beach towel. Off came her bathing suit and totally naked, stepped into a pair of shorts. Next, she donned a loose-fitting shirt.
His wife shaded her eyes with her hand. “Wow. What a tan. Looks like she was wearing a white, two-piece swim suit.”
“The hell you talking about honey? I just spotted the string of little houses. You know, the portable toilets. They move them farther away each year. They’re up there, to the right of the dunes. C’mon. I gotta pee so bad it’s backing up in my throat.”