I AM SUNLIGHT

I am the Sun, stuck in the sky, soft and warm.

A bulb of firelight stuck on the ocean’s horizon, in the same place, all day, all day, every day. Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow. Always sunshiny, always late, late afternoon. Animals and plants have adjusted their eyes or their leaves, they live, accepting that the sun, simply, doesn’t set.

Baking balmy under my rays of yellow, brown, red, and tortoiseshell, a soft multi-colored glare bouncing off streets, sunglasses, smiles and sand. Forever late afternoon, a cloudless yellow-on-blue sky, all day, every day. Huts, palm trees, people in bars under hanging fern fronds, balmy beaches, faded and glorious.

Coconut oil slathered with sweat on sensuous human flesh, desperate to rub against another’s tanned skin, to taste it, lick it, loosen their souls through touch and warmth. The sound of women in every bungalow fucking slowly in heavy air, eyes staring up at palm-frond roofs. Everyone on the tiny island can hear the muffled ecstasy, smell the delicate, intoxicating aroma of women’s flowers, the mustiness dripping and flourishing.

I’m sunlight.

Under a yellow, shimmery sky, it’s difficult for Baptiste to see through the glare. He squints, on the other side of the swimming pool a woman sits alone at the bar, naked on a stool. Other people sit or lay on sun lounges surrounding the pool, napping, relaxing, sleeping under giant sun umbrellas made from a fabric that lost its original colors a long, long time ago. Faded-fabric moods bubble along with rippling blue pool water, tranquil deep house music plays on a single small speaker behind the barman.

Walking past the sun lounges, around the pool and towards the bar, Baptiste smiles to himself, the woman’s cocoa skin blends perfectly with her tight, copper bikini material. It seems painted onto her body.

“What would you like to drink,” the islander barman asks Baptiste while he sits smoothly on a stool beside the woman.

Music, suddenly silent, moving between songs. Ripples from the top of the pool become a little louder, “Two glasses of red wine, please, Sir,” Baptiste replies.

“Oh, I don’t drinks alcohol,” the woman on the barstool beside him smiles.

“And… what makes you think the other glass is for you,” Baptiste asks.

“I know it’s for me,” her smile grows, plump lips somehow saying ‘maybe’ to his generous offer.

 Both smiling, knowing that the island’s most popular game has started again. Seduction simmers in dry air. Baptiste pays for the drinks, the barman placing the glasses before them, sunlight splashing on the rims, sun-wine ready to relax her organs from top to bottom.

“You do not like to drink the alcohol?” Baptiste asks, a little embarrassed about his obvious English language mistake.

“I arrived here yesterday…” Shanty’s shoulders push backwards, “I come from a more… konservatif island, where alcohol is, almost forbidden. I am bored with that life,” her smile stays strong, not wanting to dive into that subject, “what is your nama, and where are you from?”

“My nama is Baptiste. I am from France.”

“Ohhh, Francis… a beautiful place! And my nama is Shanty.” 

“What a beautiful nama,” sipping his wine, placing the glass delicately on the bar, “Shanty, have you been to France?”

“No,” her eyes droop, “I am poors, my family is poors,” looking at the spare glass of wine sitting in front of him with interest, “I could never buy such a luxurious, to be truths, I have only been on the island of my birth, and here,” her eyes straining to look up at him, weighed down by a gloriously invisible weight.

 Taking another sip, Baptiste lowers his glass, picks it up again, takes another much longer taste, a swirl, puts the glass back down, silently deciding to play ‘the game’ hard and fast. Toes tap tap tap along with the deep house, an even tone, the perfect, repetitive beat helping his blood be brave and balanced, “You are not on the conservative island now,” he says firmly, “I have bought you a glass of wine, and… you look like a million dollars in that tiny bikini,” eyes glowing, “I think you may have already lost some of your conservative values… yes?”

 Laughing loudly, eyes rolling, shoulders and breasts wiggling from side to side, her mind looks for a possible way to argue, or politely disagree. Looking down at her bikini, at her breasts begging for attention, and looking lower, the triangle of her pussy only kept private by a scrap of material, “May I please enjoy the wines with you,” she giggles.

 “Yes, you may,” the French accent in his voice already making her feel a little dizzy. Politely placing the spare glass in front of her, his head and neck offering the slightest continental bow.

 “This will be my first alcohols drink,” looking at the glass with some trepidation… rehearsed fear followed by a bloom of excitement popping to her face, an innocent look of wonder that only islander eyes can deliver, “thank you.”

 “Wine, Shanty… is to be savored, sip it slowly,” Baptiste looks towards the barman who’s lost in a deep house music sleepy stupor, “Sir… Sir,” Baptiste says, “is it possible to buy a small plate of fromage, ah, cheese… to have with our wine?”

 “Yes, yes, boss,” the barman’s body returns to life, lips smiling, delighted to hear the French accent again, “please wait, one or two moments, I will need to go to the kitchen to find some… some kualitas, um, quality cheese for you, yes?”

 “Thank you, no hurry.”

 Shanty’s long brown fingers wrap themselves around the stalk of her wine glass, finger, by, finger. A dance from her well trained subconscious, eliciting moist lips, licked by a healthy tongue, thrilled to be doing something new, “I think the taste will be amazing,” she says, youth shining, dripping, coating every word.

 “How old are you,” he asks, conspicuous family wealth and perfect genes glowing in his eyes of carnal fire, wondering what it will be like to slide off her bikini bottom, and see her pussy.

 “Twenty-two,” she says, wondering if this handsome man will pull her bikini bottom off her body fast or slow, “and you?”

 “Twenty-seven,” he replies, imagining removing her bikini in a fraction of a second, maybe faster. Music rolls along, beat, beat, beat, vibes of happiness as endless as my light.

 Sitting, not talking, together, sipping on wine, gentle heat falling from the sky licking the ripples on the surface of the pool. A plate of cheese arrives from a silent bartender, they nibble, they sip, music lulls them into mutual bliss.

 With a half empty glass, “I feel different,” Shanty says, holding the wine glass out and up, high to the light, studying it, “I don’t know how this is happening… huuu wahhh,” tilting her head to the left, “I am in a new… huuu wahhh, reality,” eyes rolling on a face of befuddlement, stunningly, beautifully fuzzy, “I don’t understand, huuu wahhhhhh,” head tilting to the right, “I am confuse.”

 With a blank face, “The gods must be crazy,” Baptiste replies, a secret smile wetting his lips.

 Unable to eye drag any answers out of the magical glass of wine, Shanty lowers it, takes another sip, swallows, takes a breath, and relaxes. Looking at Baptiste, “Nothing shines higher than a young woman in full bloom,” lubricated thoughts flow easily from her wet tongue, “this is my time… I am, I am the queen of the nows,” she smiles. Fingers glide to her bikini top, a fake attempt to lift the material, chocolate on hazel nipples peeking over the top of the fabric, a semicircle of desire raising Baptiste’s pressure.

The music stops, quiet again between two songs. Baptiste smiles, hearing the gentle hum of the pool filter pumping water, tiny pool waves rippling along the surface chilling his mind, more blood draining from his brain to his cock.

“This is my time,” Shanty repeats, “LOOK at me,” wine broiling in her brain, “I’m only twenty-two years old, I’m slim, with brown skins,” words skate from her mouth. Holding wobbly wine with one hand, her other hand glides down her leg with no resistance, “I’m sun-pussy, ha ha ha,” gulping the rest of her wine.

Completely quiet, sliding his gaze from her brown eyes to the cheeky hints of nipple above the bikini top, down to her toes, and up.

 “This IS MY TIME,” Shanty says, the strength of the words capturing Baptiste in a dulling trance. Everything around them becomes bokeh. Blurred into sun frazzled pixel blocks of faded everything. Shanty clinks on her glass with a fingernail. It vibrates. Ting ting. And another, and another. A trance. More rapidly on the edge of her empty wine glass, ting ting, ting ting the glass sings. Her smiling lips moisten, “Nothing shines brighter than a girl who is, say, seventeen-years-old, until they are, perhaps, twenty-five-years-old,” ting ting tinging her glass, “a girl wearing a floral summer dress,” sucking a rapid breath, “a girl at her peak,” her fingers stop, the glass rests, “no man ever, EVER shines higher than that. No man. Never.”

 Without needing to think, “I agree Shanty, it is true, a beautiful young woman at her peak, nothing shines brighter,” Baptiste says with a smile lubricated by drinking the last of his wine, an accent laughing at the lack of sophistication in the grapes, “you are correct.”

 “But a man’s time, it can shine… longers,” Shanty says, “look at you, my new friend, my first friend from Francis,” long waves of brown hair tossing, “you are twenty-seven years old, yes,” he nods, she continues, “and you are a DOLL! You are almost too beautiful.” Adjusting her bottom, getting more comfortable in the barstool, “With men, YOUR time can last so longers… until you are fifty years old, or mores,” her oiled knees twitch, matching the subtle discomfort in her voice. Silent, her mouth hangs partly open, eyes drilling a million-mile-stare into her imagined future, “This is MY time,” she exclaims, “BUT,” with a finger held high, “I will make my time, lasting forever.”

 Not reacting to her words, holding a steady, calm face, “Would you like another glass of wine?”

 Glowing.

 Sunshiny.

 I wait in the sky.

 Stuck.