Voyeur, Redondo Beach

“Down by the ocean, it was so dismal”

I see her, the fat woman on a dented turquoise boogie board.

No, I don’t slobber all over myself with words like “Rubenesque”, that’s demeaning.

Certainly ridiculous in this scenario.

The gulls sound like sirens, even with French fries in their beaks.

The woman is just regular old fat, not “voluptuous” or anything.

Momish, I suppose.

She resists rhythm, lyricism, completely.

Almost.

Something about her reminds me of the last contact corona of an eclipse.

She is really getting pretty far out now.

Purposeful.

This occurs to me too, dimly.

Does anybody else see her/care?

Hm.

I consider fetching the tanned, muscular 20-something off his stilted throne, but don’t.

Maybe she would want me to?

Oh, wow, she just about ate it pretty hard there in a swell.

Distant.

What does it sound like that far out?

I bet we’re making eye contact right now, she and I.

Pretty sure.

The riptide sometimes feels like the tug of a willful child.

A disproportionately strong one.

There is a sense of wanting.

Is it nice to be wanted?

Must depend on your personal situation.

I look around.

My head feels not unlike that buoy out there.

Usually I would eschew the double negative.

You know, just say “like” instead.

This situation demands a little care.

Funereal?

What will my brother say when I tell him about this?

Smirking “natural selection”, but that’s not fair.

It’s wrong, imprecise, you’d have to see it for yourself.

Oops, there she goes, slips out of view.

Did she go under, or just pass the horizon line?

When you hear a song and there’s a tone that makes you physically roil with sadness.

It’s primal.

Defies description to the point that I might need adverbs, which I never use.

Beyond the horizon, I think.
What do you think she’s seeing out there now?