The best predictor of behavior
is past behavior.
As we approached
the end of our vacation
I had known all along that my wife would opt for
another mid-morning of lounging on sugared sands;
another walk along beachfront towers dotting a canvas of pastels;
another breath of salt in the Orange air.
Another day in lower Alabama
also required more people watching.
Take the two couples occupying chaise lounges next to me:
Pretty, pretty wives accompanied
their slumbering spouses
who sported trucker hats, tees, and Target trunks
‘neath the shade of a large blue and white umbrella.
One eye focused on little ones in the surf,
the other eye on their troubles with
the front-nose aesthetics
of Range Rover’s 2020 Sport.
“Money In the Grave” piped through a Yeti radio ice chest.
My body burned but head bled from scratching
at the enigma of the Redneck Riviera,
as great a mystery as African sands traveling across the Atlantic.
And yet I love it. Best-kept secret.
I digress, but it’s exactly
why I did not count on an afternoon to get away,
and why we hit Fairhope for the day,
before arriving at the beach.
Fairytale of hope (and charm, and beauty, and treasures).
Now you know.