Hazy

Dash slid expertly out of the trough and up into the crystalline face of another perfect wave, stepping foot over foot to the nose as it peeled off, down the line. Beneath him, playful dolphins and manatees followed his shadow, racing along the white sandy bottom. Arching his broad, tanned back and bracing his chiseled abs into the stiffening offshore breeze, he rode in classic, textbook trim to within feet of the shore then scurried back to the tail, kicked out of the wave and, in one graceful movement, grabbed the rising board under his arm and stepped onto the shore, whistling for Thunder, his white Arabian steed loitering on the dune in the sea grass. As Thunder came trotting up alongside Dash, he grabbed the horse’s mane and swung himself up onto its back. They cantered an easy mile to the villa.

Angelina was by the pool mixing mimosas from last night’s leftover Jacquesson Brut 2002 and a chilled pitcher of freshly squeezed oranges from the wild groves that bordered their modest seven acre plot. Her smooth brown legs glistened in the early morning sun beneath an over-sized pale linen shirt—the one Dash wore last night and had left strewn on the chair beside the bed and the only garment she was wearing at the moment; her tousled strawberry blond hair an indication that she’d only just risen. Fractal patterns of tropical light reflected off the surface of the pool and crawled up her body like some 1960s psychedelic light show only nicer, cleaner. Dash tied off Thunder and climbed the driftwood steps to the terrace, taking them two at a time. Angelina glanced up from beneath her golden locks and stopped pouring. She beamed a smile so bright that Dash reached for his Ray Bans on the glass table as she skipped across the stone terrace to embrace him.


“I missed you so mu—HHHrrruunGG”

“—What?!”

“I said I miHHHrrrrunnGG”

“Huh?” Dash stepped back in alarm.

“HHHuuHHrrrunGGG….HHHuurrrruuunnnGGGHHH…HHHrruuunGGHHHFF…

“Oh, shi—”



Dash opened his eyes to a dark room. Predawn. He sat up with a start and glanced at the LED display: 5:08, great. His dog was hunched at the foot of the bed retching up the foul remains of the jumbo prawn shells she’d swiped out of the neighbor’s trash last night. Crap. Oh well, it happens once a year, doesn’t it? We were overdue. Thankfully, seven years of stern warnings and finger wagging had taught the miserable cur not to puke on the rug. Small blessings.

He went to the kitchen for a roll of paper towels and the dog slunk back against the French doors, facing him, as he returned, with an appropriately hangdog look. He cleaned up the mess and flushed it down the toilet, then sucking up his gut, pulled on a pair of jeans that were draped over the chair and the crumpled pale linen shirt he’d worn the night before, slipped on some shoes and grabbed the leash.

Outside, in the dark and empty street his dog sloshed the malodorous contents of her bowels onto the cobblestones between two parked cars. Dash hesitated a moment, his mind still hazy with sleep and aborted dreams. His heightened sense of civic duty told him he ought to pick up after his pet, but this glutinous pool posed a significant logistical problem. While pondering this conundrum, he noticed that he was standing in a spray of vomit, flecked with strings of undigested spaghetti and what appeared to be diced carrots. A hint of beer and urine wafted in the air around him. The weekend revelers. To hell with it he thought and followed his dog out to the corner square, where, relieved of her unpleasant burden she was running and prancing, her tail all a-wagging in the cool morning, as if to say ‘Hey, this is great! We should get up early everyday!’

Dash stood, arms crossed, on the corner. Up the street, yellow light was streaming out from under the half raised metal curtain of the bakery. A truck was parked in the middle of the street, the gruff driver unloading palettes of flour onto the filthy sidewalk as rhythmic French hip-hop rumbled from the cab. He sighed. “Paris, baby. I’m really living the life.”