a certain restlessness — not quite pins and needles but a kind of trembling in my solar plexus that radiates in giddy streaks down to my toes.
The air, warm and moist, smooths the gentle rumble of the dying tide against my face — like an assiduous seamstress smooths out the wrinkled fabric. Those two guards can sit for hours in the shade of the palm tree, the one-branch bench digging into their femurs, as they gaze out into the Indian Ocean. I watch them, too, from the comfort of my bed, its mosquito net swaying in the breeze, and the door to my hotel room thrown brazenly open – step out, and you’ll find yourself on the edge of the grounds, once used now abandoned boats lying belly up beneath the vehement sun.
The sunrise, too, categorically above, as I wake up with my head pointing firmly east, claims my window, shifts the curtain to the side, just enough to light the still-asleep ocean on fire. Liquid gold as it pours from the sky to the shore, unravels its path between cutouts of trees and anemic blades of grass – and up my eyelash.
Meanwhile, my team leader mutters in frustration under his breath, the project charges rather clueless and defensive; my back has reached an almost point of no return (but for a German mage who wrung the grating stiffness out of it by sheer force of will, it seems); and maybe tonight, a freshly caught lobster served to a glass of crisp white wine. Yesterday, a walk through the seedy bars of Dar inhabited by beautiful and relentless butterflies, their thin calf-less legs teetering on cheap heels, and eyes aggressive and swooning over one or the other white gentlemen. It made me sad and uncomfortable.
On the way back, I put my hand out of the car, hot and sweaty, and felt the resisting air
Трусость, несомненно, самый страшный порок…