Meander Milk

I study him. He wears no shirt, just cut-off faded jeans, a white flower behind his ear. A hand-rolled cigarette resides in one hand. His bony frame leans forward to look at a calico cat hopping like a rabbit across a garden. The air is silent and moist. Mopeds sputter periodically. The sky darkens, the ocean joins it, and the moon finds a place in the folds of blue. With salted hair and feverish eyes and burnt shoulders and moles polka-dotting his back he is the most astounding creature I have ever seen. I won’t let him know, he wouldn’t believe me anyway. So I look away and ask him what we should do about dinner.

After dinner we share a bottle of the second-cheapest whiskey we can find. Bantering, hopeful, we sit on the whitewashed stairs and observe people trotting by. Goat roasts somewhere and cigarettes are smoked. The beach extends itself into my mind. We hasten.

      The sun rises revealing a beach full of people intertwined. Kicked off sandals sleep next to green beer bottles in the sand. The waves seem hesitant in their approach. Everyone is silenced by immense concentration. We look at each other, aware of our ongoing solitudes. He shrugs. We walk to a bus stop. Kissless times last longer.