It's Sunny Somewhere

It's Sunny Somewhere

I sit here alone at my desk on this cool, cloudy, dark spring night, window wide open, the sound of a brisk wind and cars rushing down the busy street half a block away. It's almost midnight here. It's mostly calm and comfortable. I think about what it might be like in other places around the world. There could be a big storm raging people trapped in their homes; rain pounding on their roofs; wind rattling their windows; tornadoes spotted; power out; fearing the worst; worried for their children; hiding in the cellar; unable to sleep.

Then I think that right now, on this amazing planet, somewhere it is sunny and seventy-eight degrees; a few translucent clouds drifting by. A light breeze whispers through the trees as birds sing their songs. The surf softly beats out its cadence from the nearly calm sea. Bees wing their way back and forth to flowers and hives. Children laugh and play, digging in the wet sand near the water's edge. Lovers ignore all and enjoy each other in sensual ways. The light dims only slightly as a thin wisp of a cloud veils the sun for seventeen seconds.

It feels like the whole world has the day off, except the smiling barefoot island girl who happily brings the drinks. She is exceptionally beautiful, perfect figure, long black hair with a purple flower over her left ear, big dark eyes, lashes out to here set over high cheekbones, and soft red lips surrounding a killer smile. Wearing what could only be called a strapless white bikini top and a piece of white cloth with colorful flowers on it wrapped around her hips, she proudly and deliberately steps through the sand for her patrons who eyes fall to gaze at her perfect brown skin that glistens from water droplets and sparkles from grains of sand.

It is a beautiful, painless, lazy day for a man just like me who lays alone on a Chaise. He wears a big stupid-looking wide-brimmed reed hat that he bought for two dollars from a street vendor, mirrored sunglasses, and sun-block 45. He sips on three long skinny straws partially submerged in a cold fruity rum drink made in a hollowed out pineapple. The empty wooden cocktail skewer that once contained chunks of pineapple and maraschino cherries lies bare on the table beside him with only the bottle of suntan lotion to keep it company. He hasn't noticed that the little pink umbrella he removed from the drink has blown off the table into the sand and worked its way under his chair.

Girls and women of all sizes and shapes walk by in a parade along the beach, his eyes search for pulchritude. One by one he notices them and judges them and dismisses them. His real life and the real world he lives in are so far away he can barely remember. All he really wants to do is draw in the fresh air, bask in the warm sunshine, and relax, his only worry; "Should I have steak or shrimp or both for dinner tonight, when it's nighttime here and sunny somewhere else?"

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