languid: exhibiting a natural disinclination to physical exertion; leisurely; unhurried
Under a giant beach umbrella
in a sturdy beach chair
sits a woman wearing a wide brimmed hat and sunglasses
who sips something very cold
through a colorful straw
from a very tall glass
which she sets down
lightly
on the little white table beside her
so that she may continue to
read a book,
languidly.
I’ve read books
I’ve been on a beach
and I’ve even worn a pretty big hat
but as of yet have not hit the tremendous trifecta
of this image.
It is ubiquitous,
aspirational,
and utterly, utterly fictional.
Absolutely.
(two utterlys and an absolutely)
It has haunted me for a great deal of my adult life
as an iconic rendering
of a perfect
summer vacation.
There is no doubt that the book she’s enjoying is a
“summer read”,
one of those novels specifically designed
to be carted about in an oversized canvas bag;
lighthearted fare
meant to lure one gently away
from the frenetic reality of reality
to share the adventures and mis-adventures
of delightful characters
plagued with relationships,
and circumstances.
Summer reading is meant to be read outdoors,
pages designed to be illuminated by the light of the sun,
(not directly, but saucily bounced off of groomed sand).
It is a dream that they’re selling,
A formula. A recipe
where all you need to add is time
to
read.
But they don’t sell you the time. They only sell you the book.
And there it sits, on your table, waiting
for the time to read it. Outdoors, at that.
The book costs, maybe, $15 dollars.
But that experience
Of the woman on the chair
is a premium one
because she is never sitting close to anyone else
she doesn’t have a phone out
no kids within earshot
(certainly not her own
or her bag would have been
laden with other people’s things instead of
her shawl, sunscreen and keys
(and, of course, the book))
and she’s never on her first drink
sometimes there’s a young person wearing
crisp white clothing
bringing those drinks to her
so that she doesn’t even have to
lift her eyes
from the page.
So it’s $15, plus all that. Which adds up.
Plus, the time.
I’m watching people
On my way to work
On the subway
Far from the rays of the sun
Each of them
Deserves a relaxing stretch
Of eight to eleven hours
Without mayhem or consequence
But instead
They are here
Eyes down
Gripping a rail
Or packed in the seats
Elbows close to their sides
Holding their “summer read”
pastel cover awash with florescent light
No breeze
No drinks
An experience incredibly affordable
But not quite aligned
With the genre
of the book
As any fantasy within it
Is overshadowed by
the image
of that woman
on a beach
in a chair
with her quiet
and her space
and her time
to read
languidly. Next stop: Fulton Street.
Fulton Street.