The Traveller by Afrodykie

H is for … Happy
YOU put an empty arm round some waists, but alas, none yields.
It is that kind of night, hot and unrelenting, music and voices at full volume to celebrate the 50th birthday of Miss CasaConcept.
But where’s the birthday girl?
Oh, she’ll make a grand entrance I’m sure, says someone next to me.
Alas, no trumpets announce her arrival and she quietly mingles into the noisy crowd at Belle Ville in Skala Eressos.
The microphone’s all set and then boom! The speakers blare.
Katerina Vrana’s comedy teases tears of laughter from our crinkled eyes.
Then, just as the dancing begins, something makes you put your hand in your rucksack next to your chair.
The phone’s ringing. It’s Miss Muscles and the Kaftan One calling from Arendal, Norway.
There’s a heat wave there (surprise surprise) and they’re making the most of it.
They’re sitting outdoors, on the Kaftan One’s balcony, drinking wine!
The call lifts your spirits.
And you feel brave, so brave you make (unsuccessful) forays into friendliness.
Miss Panama, in disguise to avoid the paparazzi (ha ha), swings a video camera your way.
You blow kisses at the unwavering lens, and hope it’s a good picture!
The music ends, at 2am or so, and into the sea you go, you and some other women who obey the instruction to swim.
You all strip on the sand. The water feels like liquid velvet.
It’s full moon. Bliss, the best part of the night, for you, those minutes floating, staring at the star speckled sky.
That is a delight, and meeting the gents from Paris.
They come to sit next to you, these veterans of Greek island holidays, these oh so charming denizens of the debonair.
Reminisces of Mykonos in the 60s and 70s still make their eyes sparkle.
Yes, and we have a spectrum of things to talk about, a veritable spectrum my dear.
You enjoy their elegant and erudite company on the beach the next day too.
Hallelujah, kindred spirits.
Adam and Adam and Eve so bare are we.
You give them an apple, an apple for a sore stomach.
Grate it, let it go brown for a while, then eat it.
Ah, says Jean opening his eyes wide, and tilting his head as if to better examine the red fruit.
Not too brown, says Claude, with care in his eyes.


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