CHAPTER 17: At Last La Plage

Melody and I are finally on our visit to Paris Plage. It is now towards the end of the season, so we are in luck and have spread our towels out on blue-cushioned lounges close to the river's edge.

"I have shaved my arms to come today," Melody mentions, darting her tongue out for little licks of her ice cream cone. "Have you ever really looked at the hair on your arms," she asks. Her tone is very serious.

"I pulled one straight and measured it. It was five centimeters long."

I don't comment and try to keep the expression on my face neutral. Not so easy when you're mentally thinking "Good God" and simultaneously converting centimeters to inches. Two inches!

I briefly muse how a little shaving of her legs and perhaps other spots might have been a good idea. Melody indeed is hairier than I would ever have imagined. It isn't noticeable in regular clothes. But, just as she promised, she is wearing a swim suit -- not quite a bikini but some kind of a two piece lame number she said she found at the flea market.

It is a little worse for wear in unfortunate areas and a bit see through here and there, but all-in-all, it could have been a disaster and it isn't. The gold threads in it shimmer in the sunlight.  She is the glitter queen of the Seine today.

To Melody's disappointment, I drew the line on this one and showed up for the outing in shorts and a t-shirt instead of a swim suit. But it's okay. She's excited to be here.

After all my trepidation, this is pleasant. The sun begins to relax my shoulders, ease the tension in my neck, make me remember why we came. We've taken off our shoes and the sand is warm and crunchy under our feet. If you lie back and close your eyes, it's possible to daydream you're in Cannes.

Melody sits up, arches her back and raises both arms, forming a graceful curve. She lifts one leg and points her foot in a perfect ballerina arch. And she begins to hum softly.

I am reminded that beneath the rough exterior she is quite beautiful.