The Traveller by Afrodykie

Horseplay

THE Filly is more nay than yay.

But you’re getting a kick out of doing silly things that shall remain anonymous until further notice; silly little things that only a love-struck dolt could do.

They give you great pleasure, these banal goings on. They make you smile, at your honey sweetness; your child-like outpourings of what? Notice me? Love me?

Oh well, you don’t dwell on this too much … for today is the first day since you got here that you feel vaguely like somebody you know.

It’s nearly two weeks since you landed at Mytiline airport.

You stayed at the Kouitou Hotel and now you’re ensconced in a veritable palace. Grand, ek se!

You put in a load of washing this morning; sheets you know, and towels. It’s so hot here there are not many clothes spinning around in the fancy pantsy machine.

Twirly whirly working hard.

You feel normal today. You feel as if you’re you again. Calm and grounded, BUT there’s a frill of thrill dancing around you, enlivening your every cell. Good heavens. You’re so alive.

At last.

The dinner party turned into a rioutous assembly, of note.

We were kids again, reckless in a way. Yesterday we were all wide-eyed from lack of sleep and too much wine.

Organic wine, mind you. From the guy down the road.

The Norwegians brought it, more specifically Miss Muscles. She has a real penchant for the fruit of the vine.

She does not drink water!

No, no, no, she says, when you meet them at the beach yesterday, the women’s beach, where everyone lies around kaalgat.

The Kaftan One has her camp laid out, shaded by a big umbrella,.

Plastic bottles with sand in them keep her beach boat in place. It’s  one of those things you can recline on in the sea, if you want to, but she keeps it moored to the sand.

She likes lying there, and reading.

Otherwise I get bored, she says.

You’re floating around the Aegean singing on the top of your voice.

You’re kicking your legs, and making big splashes, for fun. For life. For everything.

You’re happy. 

Not only because one of the taxi drivers, Dimitria, teaches you to count in Greek, during the 4km trip between Eressos and Skala Eressos, summer’s sweltering Sin Bin.
You’re happy because, well, there’s potential, everywhere.
Or so it seems.
The seaside village is alive. Again. Pulsing.
You’re living in the winter village, where it’s quieter. More sedate.
You like to return there, to the quiet. To your home.
The place is for sale.
Maybe?
(ends)

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