O.’s applying chapstick to his chin, K.’s in the kitchen cooking eggs to order, I’m counting down to hot coffee, eating pineapple chunks out of a bowl on the table. I can’t remember ever answering so many questions about my ideal fried egg. I didn’t even know I had preferences at that granularity. Those two on the plate were pretty close, just a few seconds more on the yolk to harden up the white around it.

C., A., S., and I sat on our towels and sheets and bamboo mats and faced the ocean and I picked my way through the collective offerings, mouth full of sand and the beach umbrella blown over, but still, sun on my face, voices mixed with waves crashing, wearing my bright sunhat, all the queers out and in color, I expect a very good year.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.