I met the lovely Estie Effieux in Del Mar, California, on such a perfect summer day I was lulled into thinking I looked good in my wide-brimmed chapeau. Waves were crashing, the breeze was a waft of all that smells good, and the sun made the day look instagrammed.
Behind my over-sized sunglasses I beamed and smiled at passersby. Then the Director butted in. “Move to the right, single-file, single-file,” he barked out. I don’t know who died and made him logistics coordinator of pedestrian traffic at the beach, but I complied. The first time. By the third time, his heavy-handed, high-stepping, over-reaching need to tell me how to walk in the sand made me invoke the goddess herself.
“Estie Effieux,” I prayed, stumbling as the Director gave my flip-flop a flat tire. “Give me strength.” She appeared before me, dazzling in her femme fatale fierceness. “Estie Effieux,” I told the Director.
He shut up.