I do remember the candlelight and the green shag carpet, and that she stood barefoot in her teal bikini and cooked scrambled eggs and buttered toast as the evening arrived and the sound of the surf lulled us to contentment when we finally retired to that cheap East Coast beach rental’s flimsy couch as all the while outside the stars twinkled to life in the sky overhead on the Backbone of the Universe, and she came to rest next to me on said flimsy couch and I smelled her sweat mixed with that Coppertone aroma, her skin still slick from that tanning lotion, and her lips tasted of salt from an ocean breeze and, unbeknownst to her, the crumbs from the buttered toast that cloyingly lingered in her cleavage, her bosom contained in the bikini’s top, and then night fell and she put her arms around my neck and whispered into my ear with breath both warm and familiar:
“Eggs for breakfast.”
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