African Moon
The magic of Africa.
She leans on her elbow, chin in hand, and stares out over
the bay. The sun is bright on the water and the sun worshippers are out in full
force on the narrow strip of beach, their colourful umbrellas and sunshades
drawing the eye.
Bronzed bodies languish amid reddening skins.
She, however, is uninterested in people silly enough to burn to crisps in such
heat; she watches the water intently, staring through the hot silver stripes
upon the waves.
Twice now she has dreamed of the yacht and both
times the images were so real she can no longer ignore it. She sees sails
dancing upon a beam and with it there is a feeling of sadness. Such sadness
that she is in tears when she awakes.
She will look and watch until she either dies of
eyestrain or something happens to prove her night visits are more than dreams.
Or, she thinks in amusement, she will die of starvation, just sitting here.
The screams of frolicking kids rise up to reach
out to her through closed windows, but she barely hears them. The drone of a
jumbo jet overheard faintly rattles the glass and is then gone. The subdued
sounds of slow traffic vying for right of way along the crowded street do not
even register, and neither does the periodically jarring siren of an angry
driver leaning on the hooter. Her mind is engaged in the soothing notes of
Mozart at his absolute best.
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