“O I love your place. These old cobbled streets… and these quaint houses that you still live in. So much history and culture. And your language sounds so romantic. I can’t believe that you actually have wifi. Awesome. Oh, your skin tone is so exotic. Let’s take a selfie. Thanks for letting me click your pictures. Bye.”
LETTING ME? Like I had a choice! Darn tourists. Assuming that the primitives are all waiting around just to chat and pose. And then they wonder why our markets are so expensive – maybe to reimburse us for our loss of privacy and respect.
I watch them hurriedly picking out their books for the next class. Little cogs in the wheel rushing from class to class filling their heads with information without the ability to process that information. Little cookie cutters churning out identical unimaginative answers. Their idea of fun and frolic being an ‘educational field trip’. Spending their youth working towards the perfect resume to get accepted into a perfect college that will land them the perfect job. Never understanding that to expect perfect was the most outlandish idea of all.
The bell rings. I straighten my tie and morph into another perfect teacher.
Written for Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers, using words from The Daily Spur (picking), Fandango’s One-Word Challenge (outlandish), and Your Daily Word Prompt (frolic).
“Are they really ‘the best this side of town‘?” twinkling eyes had asked. “The best this side of the country.”
Takeaway soon evolved into breakfast. It’s not like we sat in the café. That would not be proper. We usually strolled by the flower beds as he regaled me with his always intriguing, sometimes scandalous, tales of travel. Amazing how he could simultaneously devour his scones, and ofttimes even mine. But then buttery warm scones will make you do that.
“These are the best. I’m going to miss them,” he had said.
I don’t know… somehow, they just don’t taste as good anymore.
The blatant stares and quizzical looks didn’t faze him. He knew that pink wasn’t considered a ‘manly’ look on a boat. Anyhow, what the hell was a ‘manly’ look? If it was OK to refer to the boat as a ‘she’, then why not paint it pink!
“I did it for my wife, brother,” he told everyone.
Sure, the boat was already named after her, but it was October. He owed her more. How could he not do his bit to recognize the strength of millions of women like her.
The questions were welcome… gave him the opportunity to explain. Them to ponder.
He flashed his indicator and started merging into the right lane. The exit to the airport was just 7 miles away. His eyes darted to the clock. It shouldn’t take more than 10 minutes at the car-rental. Yes, he was making good time.
He had seen the marine plant truck pull in as he left. $55 a ton was good money and they wanted the load lifted as soon as possible.
They had thought him a fool for selling the place with the seaweed wrack.
The joke was on them. Only he knew what lay at the bottom of the pile.