Workin' Progress: Heat and Eat

Eric was sandy and damp and warm.  The warm part was the key.  He hadn't gone out too far, and he didn't feel like going for a windsurfer or a kayak or one of the those gay Sunfish things; that was far too much trouble.  But he did go into the amazing crystal water, buoyed by the swell, and came back onto the glittering beach.  If it was sand--and why wouldn't it be?  Sand was simple, and why shouldn't it be naturally occurring and local?--it was firm but powdery soft and sparkled like a unicorn, or a stripper, and stuck to him until he dried.  The weather was really fucking perfect; the temperature just right.  Years and years ago, Eric was unstoppable in winter, out on his mountain bike early in the morning or out on the road in the cold, dry wind, but living in a cold house half the year as he got older really took its toll.  He lived for 30 years with a thermostat never above 60 in the winter except for when the children were young and Rebecca was living with him, but then the bill was $400 a month.  After Rebecca left, Eric was able to control the madness, and the house was empty for half the day and the bill was still almost three bills.  The kids complained from October to April, but Eric stopped hearing it after a few years, and of course, in the summer it was hot, and they complained about that, too.  But Eric didn't like it cold.  Cold made his pain worse, made every moment more miserable, every morning, every day more unbearable as he fell apart, so pleasant, embracing warmth under a bright chartreuse yellow sun was brilliant.  Apparently he didn't have to worry about sunburn, either, because he had perhaps the planet's only hammock, and it was unbelievably comfortable for sleeping in the afternoon light.