The Traveller by Afrodykie


SNIP. Antonius frees the three-prong plug from its cable. He puts it in an ashtray on his desk in a shop on a steep incline. You don’t notice this shop, at first, not until Madame X realises she’s passed the place, and needs to turn around.

Antonius doesn’t speak English but he knows what I mean. He shows me a Greek plug, a little thing, white, with two prongs.

I nod. And make cutting gestures.

My right index finger and the middle finger go up and down.

Antonius is adept. In seconds, the job is done. E1.30.

You look at the plug, helpless on its back. Goodbye South Africa it says, its three legs rigid in the air.

Manos at the supermarket in Skala Eressos tells you about Antonius.

He remembers you, from last year, when you’d buy stuff there for lunch on the beach.

You shake hands and laugh together.

Welcome, again, he says, his hand firmly in yours over the till in his shop.

It’s a good day.

You have your first swim, your first lie down on the beach. There are not many people there yet.

The bare bodies are still pale, prostate on the sand.

You meet Madame X for lunch, and sit on the edge of a deck that’s rooted in the sand, centimetres from the sea.

It’s like being on a ship, she says.

Yes. We’re drifting on an ocean of promise, the possible depth of it scares you.

Just a little. For it’s thrilling to stare into the eyes of the future.

There’s no turning back. The plug’s been pulled.

You’re on the brink of you don’t know what. You go forward, sure to meet it, comfy in your boots.

Whatever it is, you’re ready. You can’t stop now.












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