Happy.

George Thomas felt happy. He wasnt sure why; he certainly wasnt in any mood to be happy. He just was.

George Thomas couldnt explain it.

George wiggled his feet deeper into the cooler layers of sand, sighed with satisfaction, and thought for a moment he was just glad to be in the sunshine for once. In the summer the top-sand on the beach is hot enough to braise the soles. The beach itself will stay warm well into the night, only cooling down around 3:00 a.m. when the humidity suddenly drops and draws a cool lustrous pall over any late-night proceedings and stings the eyes with a newfound lust. Then George remembered a night a few summers ago when he with Tara Sherry on the very same beach, after 3:00 a.m. when the sand was cold and the sea black and noisy, and thought that the pleasantries the beach had brought him through his life was why he was happy, and reasoned that these past pleasantries justified his happiness, and let the question of Why? settle in his mind, answered. The beach had treated him very well over the years. He and Tara Sherry just a few hundred meters from where George was currently lying, and this filled George with an indistinct but measurable amount of masculine pride—if masculine pride could be measured—and George leaned back into his white strapped bleached chaise and closed his eyes, allowing his memory to wander:

Tara Sherry was a dancer which meant Tara Sherry had a beautiful ass—a dancers ass—shaped like a peach and custom fitted to be savagely gripped. George remembers the sticky sort of smacking noise it made when he slowly fucked her from behind later that morning, and the bites on her back from the sand-lice that frenzied on them as they , and the feel of her nipple like a tiny berry on a button.

George with a hand on her breast.