languid: exhibiting a natural disinclination to physical exertion; leisurely; unhurried

Under a giant beach umbrella in a sturdy beach chairsits a woman wearing a wide brimmed hat and sunglasseswho sips something very coldthrough a colorful strawfrom a very tall glasswhich she sets downlightlyon the little white table beside herso that she may continue to

read a book,

languidly.

I’ve read booksI’ve been on a beachand I’ve even worn a pretty big hatbut as of yet have not hit the tremendous trifectaof this image.

It is ubiquitous, aspirational,and utterly, utterly fictional.Absolutely.

(two utterlys and an absolutely)

It has haunted me for a great deal of my adult life as an iconic renderingof a perfectsummer vacation.

There is no doubt that the book she’s enjoying is a“summer read”,one of those novels specifically designedto be carted about in an oversized canvas bag;lighthearted faremeant to lure one gently awayfrom the frenetic reality of realityto share the adventures and mis-adventuresof delightful charactersplagued with relationships,and circumstances.

Summer reading is meant to be read outdoors,pages designed to be illuminated by the light of the sun,(not directly, but saucily bounced off of groomed sand).It is a dream that they’re selling,A formula. A recipewhere all you need to add is time

to read.

But they don’t sell you the time. They only sell you the book.

And there it sits, on your table, waitingfor the time to read it. Outdoors, at that.

The book costs, maybe, $15 dollars.But that experienceOf the woman on the chairis a premium onebecause she is never sitting close to anyone elseshe doesn’t have a phone outno kids within earshot(certainly not her ownor her bag would have beenladen with other people’s things instead ofher shawl, sunscreen and keys(and, of course, the book))and she’s never on her first drink

sometimes there’s a young person wearingcrisp white clothingbringing those drinks to herso that she doesn’t even have tolift her eyesfrom the page.

So it’s $15, plus all that. Which adds up.Plus, the time.

I’m watching peopleOn my way to workOn the subwayFar from the rays of the sun

Each of themDeserves a relaxing stretchOf eight to eleven hoursWithout mayhem or consequence

But insteadThey are hereEyes down

Gripping a railOr packed in the seatsElbows close to their sides

Holding their “summer read”pastel cover awash with florescent lightNo breezeNo drinksAn experience incredibly affordableBut not quite alignedWith the genreof the bookAs any fantasy within itIs overshadowed by

the image of that womanon a beachin a chairwith her quietand her space

and her timeto read

languidly. Next stop: Fulton Street.

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