Squat, wrinkly and round, a jumbled mass of orange and yellow silk, she perched at the edge of a relatively high stool, hovering over a loamy container of earth set upon a countertop of black granite. The moist air clung thick and heavy throughout the hothouse steeped with the familiar scent of damp yet healthy decay. Beads of perspiration blossomed and rolled to collect at the end of her nose adding a certain element of distraction as she focused an intensely wild-eyed stare upon the soil encased within a fragile, earthenware basin just below her out-thrust chin. Probing the dirt with her gnarled, hooked forefinger, she recoiled suddenly before plastering a moistened lock of graying yellow hair behind her left ear.
GAR! --- way too verbose! What about this?
Walt lounged comfortably on the sand above the surfline wedged snuggly into a rickety folding chair he’d kept in the trunk of his car since college. Between his fingers, he worked longish strands of a seaweed lanyard while contemplating the state of all things Weenie. This contemplation took all of about 10 minutes, and in the end, he decided it was all good. Tiny crabs dangled from a loose end of seaweed and raised their claws in protest as he drew the ropes across his lap. The old chair creaked and complained each time he shifted his weight against the gusting, ever-present wind.
Better --- something's still bugging me about the tone though
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