Goodbye Ms. Summer, My Sweet

I have never had a summertime boyfriend. My family was never the type to summer anywhere. And the boys I ran into in the neighborhood were the exact same boys I saw through the school year. And though slightly more tan, perhaps, which has its intrigues, no more interesting than they were the other nine months of the year.

During high school, I did once spend a week at a friend’s cabin (read: trailer) that her parents had at a small resort in central California (read: lake with lots of recreational boating – of the motor kind, of course). Wherein I managed to nurture a small, tenuous flirtation with a boy. He was a terrible conversationalist, I recall. But there was some kissing involved. And even a momentary feel up – over bra, over shirt.

And that, I’m afraid, will have to pass as my one summertime romance.

I never really started to think of summer itself as a paramour until a friend of mine observed aloud the striptease women play with warmer weather. First showing off wrists, then elbows, and finally shoulders. Baring them to be kissed by the sun.

In some conflation of the ideas, summer has been a woman to me ever since – a sultry, sexy femme fatale type. One who will make you crazy with loving her. Then use you up and cast you aside.

So every year now I feel I have a summertime lover. Some sort of tawdry, steamy lesbian affair, I guess, a la Mulholland Drive or The L Word (at least the first season affair of Jenny and Marina). In loving Ms. Summer, I am equal parts scorned and breathless, desperate to leave and helpless to stay.

I am, however, always ready to see her go. Ready for a break from her tumult, her temper. And no less so this year. Hello serene fall. I am ready to be cradled by you – nurtured and soothed. I am ready to fall repentant in your arms, ready to be calmed by your steady assurances.

To you, Ms. Summer, hot and sweet,

You are, as always, purely electric. But I fear I am a bit too worn for all your energy. What I’m saying, I guess, is that I’m not sorry you’re leaving. But I know you’re not worried about that. Come February, I will dream of you again. I will wait longingly for naked wrists and exposed elbows. And I will prepare myself for your angst and your fire. And also, for moments like these:




p.s. These were all shot on film. Glorious film!