myrmidon
“Everything in the world was in precarious balance, pure risk, and those who didn’t agree to take the risk wasted away in a corner, without getting to know life.”
The morning starts when I set my feet on the cold tiles (pink) and push myself out of bed (white). My mascara (blue) punctuates the listless sheets I wear as a cape until coffee. It’s tart and sweet, the worst blend, yet I drink two glasses from the fat ceramic mug.
I sit on the wooden coffee table and look out the long window. I pushed the table against the ledge and dangled my feet outside to the dew. If I fall, it will be too far to say goodbye or hello to the cats that lounge on the sill below. I’m only four floors upright, though its’ technically five since the main floor is up two flights of stairs. Seven steps to a flight.
Kittens slither along the sand and carry lice in their fur. I thought they all had weeping eyes though it turns out they’re so small they haven’t peeped out at the world yet. The mothers lick them clean, a pointless task, as they get dirty again after their milk. There’s no one to lick me clean, so I shower morning and midday. By bedtime, I’m too forlorn to frisk myself in the baths.
A woman wearing bells of gold and silver presented me with a vial of face cream, the color of the sand. She told me to put it on my face and let it harden. Once it cracked on my skin, I could wash it off. I slather the clay mask on my face in the morning and lounge naked, waiting for a neighbor to pop out on the balcony and see me. No one ever does. I’m the only person alive until noon.
During the day, I sit on the floor where it's cool and writes. I dine on grapes and cucumber. By nightfall, I’m ravished and rakish. There’s never anyone to play with, so I go out alone. There’s a small restaurant with six seats at the bar where I like to order a glass of wine (red) and shakshouka, eggs in sauce with cumin, paprika, and cayenne. Sometimes I take a platter of maakouda to go. I like eating the oily potato cakes before I go to sleep; it’s very grounding.
The day ends when I light the jasmine incense in Ganesha’s hand. It burns quietly and subdues the scent of the camels. One day as I ambled along the beach toward Tamraght, a man sidled beside me atop a Dromedarie and gallantly offered me a ride. The beast had long-lashed eyes and a starfish tattoo on its rump. Knobbly knees are too much like my own, and I decided I could get to the beginning quicker on foot over a hump. I declined the ride and ran to the rocky cliffs in my wet shoes (yellow).
My feet have been stained mustard for weeks now, and I regret the dismissal of that stinky beast. As the wick of the wand lowers, I send blessings to all the creatures. Especially the flies that alight on my body while I work. I went into a slapping frenzy one day and I was the only one red and wounded when I finished.
I rumble through the dream world where my actions have less consequence. What should I do aside from watching cats clean their kindle? I’m nine hours ahead of where I previously was, and the rhythm of the sea never stops. Sleeping or suffering, I know consciousness through the rinse of the tide. With or without my eyes, I hear the call pushing forward even as it recedes. It’s soothing and unnerving; this demand being awake.
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