The sticky air has coated every inch of skin and fabric, molding my thighs to the wooden bench below me. I rub my right foot over my left, feeling remaining grains of sand gently abrade the thin epidermis. Staring down at my book, I realize I’ve gazed at the same page for twenty minutes or so, and little progress has been made. I’m tired. The broken air conditioning in the house has challenged my already disturbed sleep and I’m at least one restful night’s sleep away from successfully mollifying my general perimenopausal grumpiness.
Every few minutes, there’s a delicate breeze and given the oppressive humidity, I find myself tilting my head back slightly and opening my mouth, like a baby bird awaiting a masticated treat from its mama.
I peer around, my sunglasses and hat creating enough of a barrier that I can do so incognito, or at least that’s my perception. Everyone is engrossed in their own selected activity. Free cell, a hardcover book that appears to be straight out of the library (the plastic shield is a dead giveaway), mid-afternoon nap.
Bringing my hand to my face to swat away some offensive buzzing creature, I smell the lime-flavored tortilla chips I consumed in a post-paddleboarding frenzy earlier. My stomach grumbles in response, a reminder that snacks aren’t usually much more than a temporary scratch to the itch that is hunger caused by exertion.
I didn’t bring my phone and I’m loathe to disturb anyone to ask them what time it is, lest I have to explain that my sole purpose is the mathematical equation that is now plus how many hours equals my next real meal.
I shift again, trying to peel my mostly delicate skin from the wooden slat undoubtedly leaving some wayward pattern into my lower thighs. A sigh feels precariously close to the edges of my dry lips when a voice rings out.
“Hayley,” the voice says, “what did we say about eating rocks?”
This question immediately piques my interest, but I’m desperate to not obviously seek out whomever the source happens to be.
Who is Hayley and who the fuck is asking her what was discussed about eating rocks? Was Hayley trying to eat rocks at the time she was asked this question? It seems the most logical conclusion, but also, the most illogical sentiment.
Squinting, I direct my attention to the edge of the water. The lake, or more accurately, the pond. I see a tiny little sprite wearing a teeny tiny pink and blue rash guard and bright pink swim bottoms. Her hair is the kind of blonde that is only found on baby dolls, tiny baby humans, and women with expensive taste and limitless hair salon budgets. Even from my standpoint, which is over twenty feet away, I can tell that her cheeks are rouged as a result of the sun and she’s squatting in that way that my trainer would love me to, and I’ve advised will only be possible once they identify and put into practice a device that scrapes the old and crotchety out of my bones and cartilage.
My guess is that this water fairy is Hayley and the middle-aged woman standing over her in a black one piece with large sunglasses perched on the end of her nose and something of a scowl on her face is the individual who directed this question to her. The expression on the face of Hayley’s questioner is not what I would quantify as mean. Rather, it’s something that resembles frustration tinged with endearment. I’ve already told myself that this is Hayley’s mom. Or perhaps, her stepmom. Anyway, she’s Hayley’s guardian for this lake adventure.
Hayley is looking up at this brunette, large-breasted inquirer with a face so blank that it makes me giggle. Methinks Hayley is intelligent and highly practiced at responding to these kinds of inquiries. Don’t let them see you sweat, and do not, and I mean, do NOT admit that you know rocks should not be eaten.
I would place Hayley around three years old or so. As she stands, and shakes herself off like a small puppy emerging from the water, her expression seems to morph into one that most closely resembles defiance. She doesn’t respond to the question, which is so clearly rhetorical, and instead, runs away from the water, Croc-clad feet pounding against the packed sand and sporadic spots of grass.
The woman in the water doesn’t follow Hayley but does watch her as she barrels towards the tetherball station. Again, I am tickled at the thought that Hayley, the bitty woobs that she is, has decided to engage in a game of tetherball. I haven’t tried it here, but I’m fairly certain that I can’t comfortably reach the plastic ball dangling from a string, so it’s entirely mysterious as to how Hayley believes she is going to. And yet, her spirit and enthusiasm create a warmth that swirls around my empty guts and pushes into my scar riddled heart.
She stares for a moment or two at the ball suspended in the air, hands on hips, and determined expression on her face, and then, abruptly turns and starts sprinting back to the water. Halfway into her journey, Hayley wipes out. Entirely. Small arms stretched in front of her and legs splayed behind her like a professional ball player sliding into home.
A collective gasp emerges from the group gathered by the water and I suddenly realize that I’m not the only schmuck that’s highly invested in Hayley. She has a following.
Oh, she’ll be just fine, I whisper to myself.
True to my self-talk, Hayley slowly picks herself up, brushes invisible grains of dirt and sand from her deliciously plump thighs and continues on her way. She plunges into the water with zero grace but the kind of gusto that is infinitely more enviable than an elegant entrance.
I look to my left and Sus has looked up from her phone. Her face is shadowed by the floppy hat perched atop her head, but I can see the broad smile that fills its lower half. She doesn’t even look at me when she says, “Hayley’s pretty great.”
”Yeah,” I reply, “she sure is.”
x
L.
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