Amanda Layne

 

“It was an ordinary Tuesday wasting away under the shade of rejected responsibilities.

Palm relief swaying in the breeze, sipping on the rocks to the beat of a sweet melody in the rhythm of calypso drums.

Morning raindrops plant kisses on my cheeks as iguana green darts across unpaved streets, and strangers exchange salutations whilst day breaks over the brim of my old, worn hat.

Time spent in the rays turned the blistering red of my visiting skin to a blissful native gold, banishing the burn Nature brandishes in return for forgetting her.

Before long, leathery storylines will appear in my mirror’s reflection, a first edition collection, a wrinkled highlight reel on repeat.

Pain au chocolat at my favorite patisserie, leaving treats for the dog wearing the blue bandana; I pay with dollars made of sand, merci a la mer for its generosity, a la terre for its hospitality.

When I think I’ve seen citrusy dawn from every angle, I recall how small I am within a vast planet, how far the ocean dips below the discernable surface and the sky rises in heat above.

I know I can get there if I continue to wander, remain long-lost, chartering bridges to cross, wounding fragile egos in the rift of the wake.

I am an honest marauder, a parttime thief and fulltime laissez-faire buccaneer, a sanguine swashbuckler; I am not a brown-eyed girl, but I am sure blue will do.

I blend lime and tequila with the port and the starboard, no need for a map or a compass or the cardinal directions to reach the reef of rainbow scales.

I set sail with a certain uncertainty and dive in to swim among fish and sharks and jellies, stung once or twice, but the scars will heal while regret only deepens the damage of a bite.

Turquoise tides, tropical air tickles my nostrils, the taste of salt slices my tongue as a rumbling vessel passes distantly and I dance by the light of noon beneath the velvety current.

Adrift, my thoughts stop by and then pass through, lingering no longer than my stay in one spot, holding tight to the ticking hands of the clock so I do not miss the chance of their embrace.

The edge of the world awaits, a fatal fall if you find yourself afraid of the chase; my only fears are the wave of a white flag and catching up with the slippery skyline.
The storm stirs, sweeping my ship into the abyss, but before I transcend the edge, a voice whispers in my ear: take the wheel, Captain.

Even the best days must end, but tobacco smoke from Cuban cigars and the tinny rhythm of strumming string songs with new friends slows the sunset’s paradisal finale; de nuit bienvenue.

Promise me you’ll indulge your coworkers with this fairytale when you’re sitting in your corner-offices-with-a-view,” I say, hanging up.