I had no business being in the Hamptons. Or business was the very thing I had, but it didn’t mean I belonged. On the contrary, it meant I was free to get drunk and go swimming, observe the models and the homoerotic male posturing, but it was an unspoken fact that I wouldn’t belong. No one really belongs in a frozen frame of a music video, anyway.
The men popped bottles of Veuve Clicquot and the women popped their fake breasts into fabric triangles.
I drank more vodka. I kept a skirt on over my bathing suit bottom and looked up into the endless blue sky, unbroken by skyscrapers and unfettered by planes. I drank because I had made ten new friends and was still lonely, because I was so pale and unpolished. I felt like a bumpy, imperfect milky pearl thrown in a collection of diamonds.
The sun shown on the beautiful people. I applied SPF 30 liberally, according to the directions, and kicked up pool water with my sturdy, white legs.