Imagine you borrow your feet in the cool sand as you sip your martini.

The crisp evening breeze makes you shudder.

You wish you'd grab a shawl or a wrap.

But that's the thing about storming out of your own party.

You don't exactly plan ahead.

So you sit and shiver alone.

Back on the other side of the dunes, your friends are all living it up in your daddy's

beach house.

They probably haven't even noticed you left.

But you just couldn't take any more talk about diapers and formula.

Everyone in there has a kid and a husband.

You've got neither.

All you've got is this martini.

There you are.

Oh, and Harrison, your gangly pale paramore.

He trudges dutifully towards you.

Everyone's dancing.

Come on.

Harrison does the jitterbug, as well as a drunk man with no rhythm can do.

You shake your head.

Fred Astaire, your job is safe.

Harrison plops himself onto the sand next to you.

...