I believe this may call for a proper introduction, well
Sand was overrated. Like many things which received too much credit from the eyes of loving couples venturing on their first honeymoons, it was picturesque, bleached white by the sun as it stretched on along the shore. It looked inviting, and there were still some days when Sawyer could almost find himself fooled by the handfuls of tiny pebbles, fooled into toeing off his sandals to walk barefoot in the stuff. He always regretted it, of course. The sand was somehow capable of sticking to every square inch of his body, from blowing into his hair with a strong breeze to getting caught between his toes, and it was damned annoying. Sand was overrated, only yearned for by those either born and bred on Californian beaches or those who had never stepped in the stuff, and yet Sawyer found himself venturing on over to the sandy beaches anyway, his newest reading venture in hand as he plopped his ass down a few feet away from where the surf met land, right on top of the large t-shirt that the clothes box had offered him in lieu of an actual towel. Large was actually an understatement; the thing could probably fit two of Hugo in its billowing one-hundred percent cotton fabric.
He looked left, then right, before pulling out the only passable pair of glasses he'd managed to find yet on the island, acid green and dotted with rhinestones though they were and sliding them on. They were the reason why Sawyer didn't do the reasonable thing and find a large, cushy recliner in the rec room. Sure, he was confident in his masculinity, but there were only so many times one could listen to passing snickers before it just got to be distracting, and one didn't want to get distracted when reading fine literature.
(There was also the fact that he was reading Breakfast at Tiffany's, because it was all the damn bookcase would give him. To its credit, though, Sawyer had never realized that the original was actually about a hooker. That earned it a few points, in his mind.)
Leaning against the relatively smooth and wide surface of the palm tree, Sawyer cracked open the cover of the book, licking his thumb to pull himself to the first page, and began to read.
He looked left, then right, before pulling out the only passable pair of glasses he'd managed to find yet on the island, acid green and dotted with rhinestones though they were and sliding them on. They were the reason why Sawyer didn't do the reasonable thing and find a large, cushy recliner in the rec room. Sure, he was confident in his masculinity, but there were only so many times one could listen to passing snickers before it just got to be distracting, and one didn't want to get distracted when reading fine literature.
(There was also the fact that he was reading Breakfast at Tiffany's, because it was all the damn bookcase would give him. To its credit, though, Sawyer had never realized that the original was actually about a hooker. That earned it a few points, in his mind.)
Leaning against the relatively smooth and wide surface of the palm tree, Sawyer cracked open the cover of the book, licking his thumb to pull himself to the first page, and began to read.