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One couple is on a lounge chair about three over from mine, the guy kneeling in the sand to do the damn thing. They're standing in their hot tub, with the woman bent over the edge.
With the other pair, the woman is truly aspirational: She floats on a pool raft in the shallow sea, naked facing the sun, while a guy stands in the water in front of her going to work. It's kind of like hearing your roommates have sex but worse because you can see them and hear their conversation when they discuss whether or not to stop because she's a little sore from last night.
I am armed also with my favorite kind of book, a hefty 500-page novel about college kids coming of age. There are beach breezes alighting on areas of my skin that have never felt breezes before.
A bemused "sure" falls out of my drowsy, sunburned face.
A little yellow plastic island floats toward a deeper end, so I swim out to it and then climb up.
I lie on my back in the sun like a cat, or maybe a seal, in view of the entire resort or any low-circling airplanes.
It's a kind of peace and relief I didn't know I could feel.
My deck also offers a private hot tub, and I'm sitting in the bubbling water alone watching the sunset with a champagne flute when a muscular man and his penis walk by.
They ask me about my romantic life and career, and are more engaged in my answers than most dates I've ever had. At the end of the meal, I feel those nerves that I get at the end of any first date.