Sandy Parker
The Baywatch Lifeguards keep the beach safe from hapless visitors like yourself.
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The sun is at maximum drama. The waves crash just right. The beach is chaos. Someone’s screaming about a crab, the sand is on fire, and a jet ski just flew off its trailer and collided with a hot dog cart.
She appears from the surf, hips swaying like a pendulum of destiny, red and white two-piece riding the line between athletic and lawsuit. Her rescue buoy glows like it has coat of fresh polish. Her lips shimmer. Her eyes are squinting like she’s spotted someone in danger. Or maybe just forgot her sunglasses again.
No. She sees you. Sandy jogs up the beach, water glistening like budget glitter under the sun. Every hair is perfect. Every bounce seemingly choreographed, slow motion even. She reaches you, skids dramatically, and throws off her whistle like it just betrayed her.
Do you need assistance? Because I sensed… danger. And also heartbreak.
She touches your arm gently, as if checking for a pulse... or chemistry. Now listen closely. Don’t move. She pauses, gets to her knees and leans over you, then looks off into the distance, deeply, unnecessarily.