4th Wish
Copyright©2008
by Ed Howdershelt
FW-08-11-20
Sometimes the website construction business is a little too good. I stepped away from my computer around three on a Thursday afternoon and tried to shake some feeling back into my mouse-arm, then went to make a fresh coffee and walk around a bit to get the numbness out of my legs.
All three of my cats were parked on the windowsill above the sink. Moocher and Charlie seemed fascinated by the antics of one of the local lizards, which was doing pushups on the side of a planter and fluffing out its red throat ruff. Winston, the matriarch of the group, faced away from the action. She gave me a look that told me both the lizard and its audience were beneath her notice.
After cobbling together my coffee, I checked the cat food dispenser and freshened their water, then wandered outside into a hot, sunny Central Florida day. Something about the quality of the light and the way I could see far up into the clouds reminded me of a day at the beach some years ago.
'Funny,' I thought, 'People spend big bucks to visit Florida and its beaches. I only live ten miles from a beach and haven't been out there in years.' After a sip of coffee, I mentally added a sardonic, 'Must be a reason.'
Yeah, there's a reason. This area is a retirement community and the nearest beach is a colossal bore. Scalding sunshine, too little parking, grandparents and their grandkids everywhere, and flat, waveless Gulf of Mexico water.
On the other hand ... nubile young beach bunnies with fine, solid legs and butt-floss bathing suits could be found a mere twenty miles south at Hudson Beach and ... what the hell ... I needed to be exposed to some sunlight. I needed to get out and walk for no reason, thinking thoughts above and beyond the Internet.
Going back into the house—and momentarily breathing a sigh of relief at the cool air within—I headed for the bedroom, changed into cutoff jeans and put a towel in my small green backpack, then headed for the car before some stray thought could change my mind.
Southbound traffic on US-19 was sparse; most of it was heading out of St. Pete and Clearwater, not into it. But the Hudson Beach parking lots were crammed, of course. Oh, well. I turned off the engine and waited for a parking space to open, sipping coffee and listening to Sarah Chang tickle Tchaikovsky's 35th out of her violin. Definitely the good stuff, played by a beautiful woman with a talent on a par with that of Itzhak Perlman.
A couple headed for a blue Beemer. Nosing in close to block anyone else's access to the area fairly completely, I shoved my car into the space as soon as they'd moved aside, stashed my CD player in the trunk, and headed for the beach, whistling the music that had filled the car so well.
That didn't last long. Pink's "Don't Let Me Get Me" blared from the bar/snack bar's speakers. Different good stuff. Pink's got a helluva sexy voice and she'd be gorgeous without all the tattoos and funky rags. Great legs, too, as seen in a video for the "Moulin Rouge" movie. I happily switched to whistling Pink's tunes as I doffed my sneaks and crossed the strand.
Flat water here, too. Not like the Atlantic side, where three-to-five-foot waves are normal. The Gulf side's more like a lake, with wavelets that lap the shoreline. Shrug. Still, it's salt water. Scanning the beach, I saw a big sign—big enough to read from fifty feet—that said, “NO T-BACK BATHING SUITS."
Well, damn. The blue-nosed prigs are hard at work in Pasco County, too. No biggie; eyes and legs are my favorite female viewables. I looked around for the best concentration of such scenery and saw some beach bunnies clustered around the shaded bar. Good enough. I could handle a cold beer.
Heading toward the bar, I bashed my right big toe on something that barely budged on impact and nearly tripped me. After saying a few unkind words and checking my aching toe, I bent to uncover whatthehellever had assaulted my foot.
It was
Copyright©2008
by Ed Howdershelt
FW-08-11-20
Sometimes the website construction business is a little too good. I stepped away from my computer around three on a Thursday afternoon and tried to shake some feeling back into my mouse-arm, then went to make a fresh coffee and walk around a bit to get the numbness out of my legs.
All three of my cats were parked on the windowsill above the sink. Moocher and Charlie seemed fascinated by the antics of one of the local lizards, which was doing pushups on the side of a planter and fluffing out its red throat ruff. Winston, the matriarch of the group, faced away from the action. She gave me a look that told me both the lizard and its audience were beneath her notice.
After cobbling together my coffee, I checked the cat food dispenser and freshened their water, then wandered outside into a hot, sunny Central Florida day. Something about the quality of the light and the way I could see far up into the clouds reminded me of a day at the beach some years ago.
'Funny,' I thought, 'People spend big bucks to visit Florida and its beaches. I only live ten miles from a beach and haven't been out there in years.' After a sip of coffee, I mentally added a sardonic, 'Must be a reason.'
Yeah, there's a reason. This area is a retirement community and the nearest beach is a colossal bore. Scalding sunshine, too little parking, grandparents and their grandkids everywhere, and flat, waveless Gulf of Mexico water.
On the other hand ... nubile young beach bunnies with fine, solid legs and butt-floss bathing suits could be found a mere twenty miles south at Hudson Beach and ... what the hell ... I needed to be exposed to some sunlight. I needed to get out and walk for no reason, thinking thoughts above and beyond the Internet.
Going back into the house—and momentarily breathing a sigh of relief at the cool air within—I headed for the bedroom, changed into cutoff jeans and put a towel in my small green backpack, then headed for the car before some stray thought could change my mind.
Southbound traffic on US-19 was sparse; most of it was heading out of St. Pete and Clearwater, not into it. But the Hudson Beach parking lots were crammed, of course. Oh, well. I turned off the engine and waited for a parking space to open, sipping coffee and listening to Sarah Chang tickle Tchaikovsky's 35th out of her violin. Definitely the good stuff, played by a beautiful woman with a talent on a par with that of Itzhak Perlman.
A couple headed for a blue Beemer. Nosing in close to block anyone else's access to the area fairly completely, I shoved my car into the space as soon as they'd moved aside, stashed my CD player in the trunk, and headed for the beach, whistling the music that had filled the car so well.
That didn't last long. Pink's "Don't Let Me Get Me" blared from the bar/snack bar's speakers. Different good stuff. Pink's got a helluva sexy voice and she'd be gorgeous without all the tattoos and funky rags. Great legs, too, as seen in a video for the "Moulin Rouge" movie. I happily switched to whistling Pink's tunes as I doffed my sneaks and crossed the strand.
Flat water here, too. Not like the Atlantic side, where three-to-five-foot waves are normal. The Gulf side's more like a lake, with wavelets that lap the shoreline. Shrug. Still, it's salt water. Scanning the beach, I saw a big sign—big enough to read from fifty feet—that said, “NO T-BACK BATHING SUITS."
Well, damn. The blue-nosed prigs are hard at work in Pasco County, too. No biggie; eyes and legs are my favorite female viewables. I looked around for the best concentration of such scenery and saw some beach bunnies clustered around the shaded bar. Good enough. I could handle a cold beer.
Heading toward the bar, I bashed my right big toe on something that barely budged on impact and nearly tripped me. After saying a few unkind words and checking my aching toe, I bent to uncover whatthehellever had assaulted my foot.
It was
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