Summer came in fits and starts. The work week boasted perfect beach weather, all cloudless skies, still air, and mercury hovering like an indecisive bee between the 80 and 90 degree range in the thermometer on my deck; and then the weekend was ushered in by listless, gloomy clouds(more) that wouldn’t rain and wouldn’t leave.
“June gloom is supposed to be over by now,” I complained, scowling at gray skies framed by the strings of my new bikini. In a fit of hopefulness on Tuesday, I had hung it against the bedroom window and folded my beach towel neatly on the dresser underneath. My sandals rested neatly atop the towel and my straw hat just to the side, its brim decorated by the puka shell necklace my sister brought back from Hawaii the past year. But for the unenthusiastic sky scape, it would have been a popular snapshot on Pinterest. “I think the atmosphere is lying about what season this is. It’s conspiring with the calendars. We have to do something! To the time machine!”
“It’s not lying,” you said with a laugh.
“Oh, sure, take the atmosphere’s side. Between the two of you I’m never going to get a tan.”
“It’s not lying,” you insisted. “It’s in denial. It hasn’t caught up to reality yet.”
“Well, I have, and I’m getting impatient. Mark it, darlin’: July eighteenth, the day I gave the weather a talking to. The day I became Long Beach’s hero.” I sprang to my feet and marched out of the house with an air of purpose.
I returned with a receipt for two tickets to the Caribbean, saying: “Their atmosphere is less treacherous.”