“Summer is coming,” Seashell Steve said.
There were signs all around him. The ocean waves a little bit prettier as they crashed into the beaches of Mermaid Island. Wendy was washing the window of the pier store. The smell of frying shrimp came from the Fish Shack and it wasn’t even 9 am. There was a brand new sign from the Mermaid Island Police Force telling people not to make obscene sand sculptures.
Steve bent over and picked a seashell off the ground. His knees and back protested this movement lingering pain. He growled as he stuffed the shell into his bag. Goddamn seashells. Only fucking tourists would pay shitloads of money for seashells with a little paint on it. Still, if it wasn’t for the tourists buying these shells, Steve wouldn’t make enough money to pay for his beer for the year. That almost made up for the pain.
He thought about the tourists. They would be mostly young people, fresh from school and dying to wear tight swimsuits and get bronzed by the sun. The bars will be filled with the older tourists, ladies who drink fancy drinks and made out with seashell artists for the novelty of it. Steve’s condo building will fill up with horny couples who sometimes like to let a man fuck the wife if the husband could watch.
Up ahead on the beach, he saw the first sand sculpture of the summer. It was a ten foot long topless woman with a bikini bottom. He stopped to admire the work that went into the cameltoe. That was artistry.
“Yep, summer is coming,” Seashell Steve said. It was about fucking time.