Scene: A cold, deserted beach at high tide. Enter a shivering woman wrapped in a terry-cloth robe.
Alas, poor sun-bather! I knew her Horatio: a girl of infinite tan, of most itsy-bitsy teenie-weenie yellow polka-dot bikini; she has lain on the dunes a thousand times; and now, how nostalgic I am. The lifeguard blows his whistle at the sight of her. Here are those shoulders I slathered with SPF40 I know not how oft. Where be your novelty unicorn-shaped flotation tube now? Your waterproof transistor radio playing Kiss FM? Your fluorescent pink water shoes with non-slip rubber soles? Your beach volleyball games that were wont to set the sands on a roar? Not one now to mock your own sunburn? Pink nose peeling? Now get you to my lady's Air BnB, and tell her, let her pack up her suitcase, it's time to go home, let her cry about that.
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