Can’t sleep.

ptr

Missing the sunrise and peeking over the balcony as early workers stroll by, conversing in native tongues over the rooster’s crow. Stretching out my legs and feeling the heat on my skin before daylight has fully broken.

Stirring the perfect cappuccino —

— under the latticed patio roof, flanked by lush vegetation and pretty florals. We pretend it’s all ours. There’s nowhere to be and nothing to accomplish. No one to appease but each other.

Then,

Heading oceanward to plunk down our bodies, laze about and brown deliciously all over. Dunking full selves into the surf when it gets a little too toasty. Hearing the wind, the waves and very little else.

The sun’s gone.

A peaceful respite though the bugs are biting, but we’ve learned not to notice. Sharing a tasty meal, not skimping on dessert, then heading out to where…

…they dance into the night.

Perfectly en pointe, in tune, attuned. Mesmerizing and seemingly without effort, commanding attention and deserving adoration.

Yet sadly,

It’s over almost as soon as it began, when the realization hits that you’re caught up and will do

Whatever
It
Takes

To feel that way again.

the love of travel
— by dianne c.

On Love and the Islands

islands

I sat there contentedly, stirring my cappuccino, and waiting patiently for Hubby and Big Girl to return.  It was his turn to get the crepes.  I had overeaten yet again, and this time Little Baby decided to stay in her stroller and sleep so I could sit back and enjoy dessert.

I sipped and smiled to myself, happily recounting the last few sunny days in my head, when I saw The Lady.  She sat facing me, the next table over. The Lady was also sipping a coffee, but she and I were very different this evening. The Lady had very big, sad eyes. And The Lady sat alone.

I immediately wondered how she ended up on a beautiful island, sitting all by her lonesome. I mean, I couldn’t imagine the scenario for myself. God has blessed me with a carefree and loving marriage, quite smooth sailing for the past three years and counting. In between now and 13 years ago, I had been out of a relationship for only three months. I don’t even remember what it’s like to be on my own (though, metaphorically, I could certainly recall some rough times).

I pondered how it must feel to retire for the evening to an empty bed. To wake up without the chatter of an overexcited four-year-old or the hungry cries of a grumpy little baby. Or to an exhausted husband snoring deeply.

I wondered if she was meeting anybody at the bars. Whether she chatted up the bartenders as they shook up her cocktails. Would she be boogeying on the dance floor tonight, in her highest of heels and shortest of skirts?  Did she lay on the beach until the sun set, staring into that awestriking horizon, wishing she had someone to snuggle with as the ocean breeze kissed her blonde hair?

I continued to drown in my thoughts and barely noticed The Man who set his coffee cup and plate of dessert on the table and sat facing The Lady. She acknowledged him, or lacked to acknowledge him, if you would, in the “loving” way an irritated wife would greet her tardy husband.

Guess she wasn’t lonely after all.

Whoops.