Umbrellas (Plural)

On a clear summer day at a private beach, a man sat with his two sons, waiting for his wife to return with the towels they had forgotten.

“How do you even play this?” Asked the younger son.

“I don’t know, read the directions.” Said the man

“I’ll play it later,” the boy said with a sigh and then begun scooping a hole in the sand.

The man sat beneath the shade of his umbrellas (yes, plural) with a cigar in one hand and a glass of whisky in the other. His feet dug into the sand so as not to burn. The joints on his feet always burned. Why don’t they call them knuckles? he thought. He felt happy and then thought about how he felt happy and then wondered if he could possibly be happier and then was happy no longer.

He looked up at his children. His youngest was now pretending to be a turtle. His oldest was sitting sullenly, waiting for him to put down his cigar and swim already.

He ashed his cigar against the metal pole of the umbrella and wondered why he had all of a sudden become so agitated.

Fuck. Maybe if I have sex. But then what? A cigarette? Why do they always have cigarettes after sex? And then what? A meal? Go out tonight, maybe? A movie? And then what? Sex?

He stood up with his cigar clamped in the corner of his mouth and with one hand adjusted the angle of his umbrellas (yes, plural). He flopped back unevenly into his beach chair causing one side to sink further into the sand than the other. With extreme annoyance he repositioned himself and dug his feet into the sand so they wouldn’t burn. Why don’t they call them knuckles? He growled, and then swore.

What’s that? Asked his oldest, less sullen now hoping his Dad had said he was coming in.

Nothing, he said, nothing.

He felt unhappy and then thought about how he felt unhappy and then wondered if he could possibly be less happy and then wiped the sand from his chair, poured himself another drink beneath his umbrellas (plural) and a million miles away from his family.