Perfect Nails

Walking along the beach, just north of Santa Monica, Lola glimpsed a small, green bottle tossing in the shore break. “Hmmm,” she thought “it’s odd to see a glass bottle these days, everything’s made of plastic.” With her Khaki pants rolled up to her slender calves—the ones that looked so taut in those jet black stilettos of hers---she waded into the shore break to retrieve the bobbing bottle. Inside, she could see a perfectly dry strip of paper, with a few words written in florid sweeping script--- and was eager to remove it, at least at first. She paused for a moment, quiet as a mermaid, as the tide breathed in and out, and the noontime breeze played with Lola’s now unfurled blond hair. She knew the bottle contained a message, maybe even a sign, but she was apprehensive, almost on edge, as she removed the sealed top with her OPI “I’m-Not-Really-a -Waitress” colored nails, taking extra care, as she did, not to chip this morning’s fresh manicure.