James Brawley

I can't wait to go home in the morning.

When France says, does anyone want to go swimming?

And her relatively more modest sister says, we don't have suits.

And a fearless, guileless, Germanic Susan says, that's OK with me.

And a couple of minutes later, they're standing on the beach in panties and bras, which are very different than bikinis.

Frances are chocolate brown lace, and her skin is the color of milk.

She looks like a profiterole.

My favorite dessert.

It is agony to keep my eyes open, but I can't close them.

And the three of them run into the water, laughing and splashing, and then finally disappearing underneath the surface.

So everything's quiet for a moment.

And then one, two, three, they pop up and start calling at me like sirens who actually lived in Positano 3,000 years ago.

James, come in.

It's wonderful.

And I haven't been swimming one time, and it's dark.

So I make a decision.

I'm going to take off my shoes and socks and pants, and I put them on a beach chair.

And I unbutton my shirt and thread out my arms so that it's just hanging there like a little poncho.

And when France disappears under the water again, it goes off on the back of a beach chair, and I'm in.

But I've waited so long to make up my mind that Susan's cold.