Chips. Guacamole. Salsa. A draft beer named Shocktop, punctuated by an orange slice (like that other time all those years ago), that is so smooth and delicious that for the next hour as I nurse it I feel sheer bliss there in the sun-speckled shade of a palm tree. I read Jonathan Livingston Seagull (yet again), writing notes in the margins while I sit there on the margins, poolside. I don’t yet feel my own wings spreading (yet again), but I will. I will.