Tuesday, June 11. The groundsman returns, occupied once again. Half of me enjoys this because of his company. The other half doesn’t because of the laborious temptation he offers me. We don’t discuss what happens on the widow’s walk. I imagine that neither of us want to, of course. Both of us do our own thing. He works in the garden shed and I --

The green-and-white garden shed’s double doors are open. I walk past, carrying the small, velvet Crown Royal bag, during a beachcombing mission for colorful sea glass again. Being inquisitive, the shed's confines gain my attention, and I stop. The many things stored inside the shed enlighten my interest: a two-seater, transparent Crystal Canyon kayak that looks to be seventeen inches long with an aluminum frame and two paddles; flippers and snorkel sets for diving; an inflatable Coastal compact emergency raft to escape the island during an emergency; a two-person Sun Dolphin paddle boat with an aqua-colored canopy; and three Falcon PU surf boards approximately six feet long each. To the right of the entrance is a wide selection of tools. Everything from a basic hammer to a variety of lengthy palm tree saws that resemble giant crab legs from a 1950s sci-fi movie. Beyond this wall are two rear doors, a beach ATV, and a sixty-inch Camco shoreline beach rake that I’ve both seen used numerous times in the morning, shortly after the groundsman’s arrivals.

Speaking of the groundsman, he appears from behind the wall of tools, startling me. I jump, gasp, and drop the Crown Royal bag to the sand between my feet; fortunately none of the sea glass pieces tumble out. Being the gentleman that he is, he rushes up to me, bends, and retrieves the bag. When rising, his nose accidentally -- or purposely, I’m not so sure now that I think about it -- glides against my khaki shorts and bare navel, and he says with a dubious morning smile as he passes me the purple fabric bag, “Here you go. Sorry, I made you jump.”

I probably blush because I feel my cheeks catch fire. “It’s fine. I should be more relaxed. I mean, it’s the reason why I’m here.”

“Out for a walk?” he inquires: hands on hips, legs spread ever so slightly apart. The man looks edible from head to toes since he’s barely clothed this morning in a banana brief that looks cupped to his rounded goods with convex-perfection. I steer my gaze up to his face and glinting smile, rosy-red lips, broad shoulders, and now to his popped pecs, and flickable nipples. My eyes stray to his hairy chest, dented navel, narrow hips, and once again down to the rounded package in his banana yellow brief between his rigid and golden brown thighs. Granted, Brass is Latino, of course, but he’s still suntanned, almost chocolaty. Everything about his sculpted body is model-generous, perfect, and eye-catching. In fact, I can’t stop looking at him, lick my bottom lip, become wide-eyed, and feel overheated under the sun’s rays, or maybe it’s from his beauty -- the artwork along the Gulf, my summertime find.

I shake the purple bag. “Looking for sea glass.”

“Sounds like you found a few pieces.” He rubs a palm from his navel up to his chin. Teasing me comes to mind, but I’m not sure.

“I’ll take them back to Dallas with me and use them in a few special pieces.”

He nods, seeming interested in the topic. “Once in a long while, following a storm, the tide will wash up a lot of sea glass on the beach. It looks similar to a glittery road when the sun hits it. But I haven’t seen this happen in a few years.”

“That definitely would be something to see,” I admit. But right now, seeing him almost fully naked, except for the band of yellow around his center, is fine with me.

He lifts his right arm, throws a thumb behind him, and informs, “I should get back to work. Organizing things in there. It needs to be done.”

I nod, answering him.

As he turns and walks away, showing off his tight bottom and thick thighs, I think to myself: My God ... What a handsome man. Maybe he can be mine.