Dune
There may be something better than driving to the coast at midnight in Julie’s red coupe. But I can’t think of it.Certainly not when you consider the details.
That the windows are down, for example, and the warm air is rushing in, and the clouds are occasionally breaking apart to reveal patches of sharp Coast Sky stars.
That we are singing, loudly, The Girl is Mine. That, when the brilliant Michael-Jackson-Paul-McCartney duet finishes the first time, Julie leans forward without hesitation and hits replay. That I say, Can we sing this song together at my wedding? and she, again without hesitation, says Of Course. That she then says, I get Michael, which I barely hear because at the exact moment I am saying, I get Paul.
That in the two bucket seats behind us are two boys who work at a bicycle shop. Because when we thought of the trip at ten o’clock she wanted to invite Noah, a sweet young biker boy who’s been chasing her, but I did not want to be a third wheel. (Bikes don’t have third wheels.) So she called him and said We’re going to the coast but you need to bring a friend and I yelled A Friend Over Twenty Five! and she said into the phone A friend over twenty five and after a minute she looked up at me and said, How About Twenty Four?
That we wade in the water until our toes are numb, and sit on blankets drinking wine and lemonade and eating smoked mozzarella and crackers that the boys – at some point in the one hour between when they learned of the trip and when we picked them up, late on a Friday night – managed to arrange.
That we stay until the sky gets light, laughing and watching the waves break. That two days later we are still finding sand in our hair.
posted by tortaluga @ 11:48 PM
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