hurricane.
Chicken wings. Six. Virtually colourless. Dirty grey — if any. Lukewarm and slimy to the touch. Skin wrinkled, looks more like human than poultry. Around them, on the paper plate, a few sorry looking chips, embarrassed to be there, and two eights of a green tomato. This is my lunch because this was the only item on the menu. The coconut, however — freshly chopped and served with a yellow straw — is looking promising. I try it and I am ready to bin my chicken lunch. That coconut milk will carry me through the day.
The parasol and the two deckchairs I hired (one a waste of money, but there was no single option) plus the chicken lunch will set me back by the equivalent of about 25 dollars. I commit that dispensable information to memory as I take another long sip of the coconut milk.
Presently, two things happen in quick succession.
I see the young guy who served me my meal just a few minutes ago walk — from the tiny hut in the back sporting the weathered sign “BEST BEACH BAR” (green letters on a yellow board) — towards the water, lazily removing his grease-stained tee shirt without slowing down and casually dropping it on the sand before breaking into a tentative jog, then diving into the sea foam washing up on the beach.
And next, you materialise from nowhere and ease into the other deckchair, so far unoccupied. Between us is a small round rattan wicker table with my chicken lunch on. You’re wearing a light summer suit, no shoes and I am shocked. I have absolutely no idea why you are here or how you have found me. I’m staring at you in complete disbelief and you’re looking out towards the ocean.
And you sigh.
