Here in the American Southeast, summer is closing in. When Sophie and I walk in my neighborhood, people are out in shorts and slides, and the sound of air-conditioning hums all around us. It’s hot and humid and, by mid day, the intrepid runners pelting past us two old ladies–Sophie is almost 11–are covered in sweat.
Summer, perhaps because of where I live, is not my favorite season. Direct sunlight makes me itch–I’m a big fan of overly large sun hats–and humidity makes everything harder to do. I do love sultry–but not as brutal–long summer nights and how, at least until July, bright green the world is. But overall, I prefer fall, spring, and over summer.
Summer doesn’t seem very romantic to me. Sticky sex isn’t as winning, IMHO, as intimacy where every touch makes lovers drip. And don’t even get me started on sex on the beach. THERE ARE PLACES SAND SHOULD NEVER GO.
I’d pick winter as the most romantic season. There’s the literal joy of warmth in a chilly time, the anticipatory thrill of seeing a lover unwrapped from all the cold-busting layers of clothes, the cocooning sense of wonderful it’s just the two of us that snuggling under heavy covers can bring.
Spring is up there too–all the rebirth and color–and, if I’m taking romance out of the equation, fall is my personal favorite time of year.
How ’bout you? What do you think is the most romantic season? What’s your favorite?