I Want a Little Sugar
Here I am, sitting on a cozy balcony overlooking the Atlantic Ocean at Sandbridge Beach and I think I’ve made a mistake. This is a writer’s retreat, but I’m not a writer. Not really. I want to be a writer, you know, if it can be done by daydreaming. But to sit down each day and write, actually physically write? I don’t think so. People who think writing is easy are not doing it right. I am under no such illusions.
This retreat is a gift from my grandmother for having survived my divorce. Divorce, now that’s one word I never thought I would utter in connection with me. But Brad fell out of love with me and in love with his administrative assistant and her very short skirts and very cleavage-enhancing blouses. That’s another story and not a very good one, certainly not one worth writing down. The one saving grace is that I had pretty much fallen out of love with Brad too. His infidelity was actually a welcome relief.
A mansion is being built next door and shirtless men hammer and drill. My grandmother would love this diversion. She would tell me to write about it, after ogling the men, of course. “Get right back up on that horse,” she would say to me, which when talking about men is kind of too graphic. Or not.
My grandmother has called me a prude. My grandmother. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.
I sip a glass of Gewürztraminer and surreptitiously watch the men. A curly-haired blonde starts talking into his cell and turns and leans back against the wall. His bronzed torso is ripped. He’s wearing khaki shorts that show off muscled legs. I sigh. He grins at me.
Carp. I know my sigh wasn’t that loud. He ends his call and then waves at me. My face flushes. I can almost hear my grandmother groan as I turn quickly away and pretend that neither of us exists.
From the balcony below mine, I hear a woman say, “Well, aren’t you just the sugar in my coffee. Are you single?”
“Definitely,” the curly blonde man says.
My grandmother would adopt her on the spot.
“Maybe we can get together for a beer,” the woman says.
“What about your friend?”
“The one on the balcony above yours.”
“Yoohoo, upstairs balcony.”
Carp. I guess I’m Yoohoo, upstairs balcony. I lean over to see a curvy blonde in a tiny red bikini and huge sunglasses.
“I’m Brittany. Are you game to go out with some builders?”
I swallow. “I’m Callie. Nice to meet you.”
“Well, Callie, are you?”
“Maybe. I guess.”
“Good. Now go get ready cause I’ve seen some sugar that I just have to taste.”
She is the granddaughter that my grandmother has always wanted. Maybe I can learn something.