Driving to the beach - the farther one, not the public one - I pass a couple of small, family owned restaurants. Crabs! scream the signs. Fried fish! Shrimp! They are little, side of the road places - the kind you see in movies, the dark hole in the wall places that you just KNOW serve the best seafood.
I fantasize that I leave the beach, hot and sandy, worn out from the rigors of laying out in the sun for hours, and stop at one of these places. I fantasize about walking into this little hole in the wall restaurant, wearing a beach cover up and flip flops, and sitting down to a nice cold drink and some equally cold shrimp. I have it all planned - know exactly how it will feel to walk in, sun soaked, salt and sand laden, and sink into the air conditioning, dreamily sucking the crab meat out of the legs and dipping the chilled shrimp into the cocktail sauce. You know the deep fatigue I speak of, the one that comes from doing absolutely nothing. Fish in baskets on the table, tartar sauce and hot fries. I'll eat hush puppies until I explode, and then make my way home to sleep a deep, dreamless sleep. I picture it in my mind every time I drive past these places.