Africa; the coast,
Salty sea breezes push us down raggedly paved roads on skateboards. Laughing and swinging in the sun. We slide and cascade towards sea side bars for midday drinks. Peddlers and homeless reach out and ask for something, anything. The air is cool and warm at once. Comfy beach seats. Mojitos, beers, seafood, maybe something else? Weak joints, lip gloss, stories from home. Friends, more friends, everyone’s friends here.
She’s sun-burnt, bleach blonde, high on life; the largest smile I’ve ever seen. Busted knees and wrists from the surf and the skate. What to talk about? The journey, the wave, the life. Skinny dips under palms, tip toeing to apartments, grasping and reaching, we’re exposed. Smells of banana boat, coconut oil, more joints, and salty sweat. I’m a rock, she’s the water. Solid and soft. I’m here for work but doing none, and she, the opposite. YouTube videos in white washed rooms with a breeze, sex and smoke– Saturday is everyday.
Can you keep a secret? Is there a future here? I’m always the one who has to leave, but what if I stay? Things progress; after-parties, cocaine, menage a trois? We dance along a crest. It’s a wave that's captivated us all, we know it’ll crash but that’s okay, it’s why we’re here, to catch the waves of life. What’s the point if we don’t try and stand up and ride a few? Sure, danger and misfortune await us, but there’s nothing worse than waiting and missing the ride. Accept the pull, the rush of the wave, fuck it feels good. But we know the crash'll come. She always does.
And here she is. The break has busted. My head is jammed in the airplane window. I look down at breaking waves, the seaside bars, the smells, the shouts, and the bustle. It’s over. It’s still there but it’s over for you. Just like the waves. Yours has come and gone, it’s time to pack it in. You know there was never any other way but still the pit in your stomach feels like a puncture you can never heal. Can you heal it? Should you? Let’s turn back this time. Fuck it.
Just a number,
I sip coffee in a sheltered corner. Life bustles around me. People rush to and from work, families, appointments, dates, and emergencies; the buzz of human life in the air. I can tell no one speaks my language or understands the intricacies of my homeland. I’m away... far away. It’s been too long, maybe not this trip, but all together. I’ve only just arrived and it feels like it's been too long.
Rain and snow come down together. Everything is gray-blue and wet. The sky is layered, clouds slide this way and that with more shades of gray; all colluding to not let the sun through. People tuck their hats down, quicken their pace, slip up umbrellas, and jump into cabs. No one notices me. Is my family thinking of me? No, surely it’s past midnight on the other side now. I’m stuck in time, between two worlds, neither of which appreciates my presence nor my task. I’m here. So I tell myself it needs to be done. I know it'll get done. And that’ll have to be enough.
This is the last one I say, like always. Until next time. I could walk away. Would anyone notice? How long until my replacement shows up? Would it be before or after my family is notified? The mission always comes first. I brush my waist to make sure my weapon is there, sometimes I forget. It’s time to go to work. I flip my hood up and step out into the chaos. These are easy now, not like they used to be. Is the job important? No. Not particularly, but it needs to get done. I can half-ass it, but I won’t. It’s not our way. And they know it.