Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York
Marie and I spent the weekend in the Hamptons. She was cooking. I was doing dishes for people with names that only the very rich or the very poor can have. Whimsical names unconcerned with future employment.
The house was once owned by American royalty, surrounded by a garden with a lush array of greens and paisley pastels. Each day the sky was a wet blue streaked with wisps of clouds. The sunsets spilled rose'. All was surreal and peaceful, like living inside of a Manet painting.
A famous movie director lived across the street.
A writer for the New Yorker next door.
A rap mogul cruised by one afternoon under the sun in a lime green drop top Volkswagon Beatle.
People lightly gossiped while sunning by the pool.
Naked, blond and tanned children giggled and ran through people's legs while holding red popsicles.
Lunch was served under the pagoda in the garden.
Dinner on the patio by candlelight.
We had the day off.
It was sweltering out.
Bentleys and Beamers parked near the water. The sand was crisp and warm.
The water was chill. The air was quiet and reserved. People on the beach wore designer everything, huddled in small groups, stared at my body covered in ink, wondering how in the hell I had found my way into their wealthy sanctuary.
I paid them no mind.
My back hurt and Marie's legs were tired, from work.
We laid our towels down, kissed then fell asleep under the burning sun.
It was the Fourth of July with the rich and famous.