The beach was comprised of very
coarse sand, filled with all sorts of eye-catching glimmers and assorted
remains of tiny sea creatures. One
older couple walked along with metal detectors searching for treasures, while a
small child sat with pail and shovel, building temporary housing for her
imaginary friends.
Squawking on-lookers glided
overhead, some hoping to see something tasty, and others simply squawking,
knowing that is what the beach is supposed to sound like.
I was sitting in my beach chair,
closer to the sawgrass than the breaking waves.
For the most part, I ignored the
sounds of the seagulls, but the gnats and sand fleas were annoying. The book I was reading was neither clever nor
well written. The story itself never
grabbed me, and I considered just giving it up for the day and heading back
home. That’s when I noticed this woman,
not at all in beach attire, making her way toward me. As she got closer, I saw she was wearing
clothes more appropriate for a business office than the oceanfront.
“Excuse me” she said, standing
next to me. “My name is Turner. Page Turner.”
“Finally!” I said excitedly and
tossed my paperback into the grass.
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