Bohemia Village Voice  Bohemia Village Voice

For bohemians everywhere

Jan Rhoades

Wish You Were Here

He stands alone. Above him the clouds skim across the vivid blue sky, obscuring briefly the mid-day sun. A lazy breeze stirs the palm trees. From the beach below drifts the salty aroma of grilling sardines, the tang of garlic and lemon teasing his hunger.
Three hours since she’d left him stretched out on the sea wall, eyes half-closed against the sun, the sea a shimmer of diamonds between his lashes. ‘I’ll only be half an hour – just a quick look round the shops’, she’d said, planting a kiss on his head. He’d smiled, drowsily indulgent. Perhaps later they’d take that trip across the bay, take the tourist bus up into the mountains, visit the orange groves.
Waking later, he stretches stiffly and checks his watch, his good humour dissipated. He turns, leans against the sea wall and half-heartedly looks for her familiar figure amongst the throng of tourists returning from the town. He sighs. Every day the same. Shop, shop, shop. A week wasted now.
Women!
Suddenly he reaches a decision and moves swiftly to the car. Inside he reaches for the pile of unwritten postcards on the dashboard. He selects one with colourful scenes of places unvisited. ‘Wish you were here’ he scrawls on the back and flings it onto the passenger seat.
Slamming the door he moves purposefully back towards the sea. On the beach a cool beer in his hand he waits for the freshly cooked sardines to be brought to him. Their taste lingers on his lips as he makes his way down to the water’s edge, where the waves slap gently against the little boats for hire.
As his chosen craft chugs lazily across the bay he squints back at the diminishing shoreline before surrendering himself to the warm sun on his back and the prospect of the adventure ahead.

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