After a couple hours bobbing in brilliant lakewater, there are grapefruit margaritas on the sundeck, or maybe a couple of cold beers out under the shadetree. Everybody’s full-throated, half-naked, sunburnt, and totally shot by three o’clock, even though happy hour is still several hours away. Everyone’s already as happy as anyone can be, thanks to their lengthy lounge, chips and dip in a darkened bar, and their spirited but friendly debate about the current sad state of affairs no one’s paying any real attention to anyway.
Eve snaps up a Tupperware filled with applesauce, steers Adam toward the back door.
Ron. Lavalette writes “to overcome his stir-craziness up on the Canadian border in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom.”