An Afternoon in Paradise

It’s 4 :45. From an anonymous cubicle in the featureless corridor of an ordinary office building, a man dreams of an escape. He’s been sitting at his desk for what seems like an eternity and his mind has wandered off.

Still gazing at his bland screen filled with unimportant numbers, he pictures himself out in the open, with a warm breeze coming from the ocean close by. His skin gorged with the warmth of a high afternoon sun, he walks slowly on a wooden path by the dunes, letting the tips of his fingers caress the high weeds that swing all around.

Slowly, he loses the feeling of his boring business clothes weighing heavy on his tired shoulders. He replaces that sensation with a faraway memory of his Beloved, rubbing his shoulders gently with a delicate lotion that smells of coconut and vanilla. Her fingers slowly pressing from the base of his neck all the way down to his lower back, massaging his weary skin and filling him with a deep sense of surrender.

A bristle white cup holding what could be his thousandth coffee for the day starts to shift, brightening up and coloring itself with lively mango, lime green and cherry red. Crispy ice cubes break from a tray held just above and splash in, making the glass surface fog up with juicy little droplets that slide down in diamond puddles.

The usual clicking and keyboard sounds have faded away, replaced with the happy chirping of beautiful birds up above and the distant humming of cicadas celebrating a weather that makes life easy and enjoyable. He breathes.

Slowly passing his hands through his thick hair, he finds himself smiling, relaxed, refreshed. He doesn’t know how long he stayed there, contemplating this inside world he created to escape a gray monotony we are made to believe is daily life. And he doesn’t care.

Mechanically, he stretches his arm and shuts down his screen. He stands, his other hand grabbing his coat and swinging it over his shoulder. As he walks away, light-hearted and peaceful, he spares a last glance at his monochromatic workplace. Everybody’s gone.

He shrugs, and then smiles some more. He doesn’t care where his coworkers are or how their day was. He knows only one thing.

He spent his afternoon in paradise.

Ramblings

She sits at the piano, extends her arms and sends waves of dancing little notes all around the house. Seconds ago, there was only silence and the soft sound of my fingers on the pages of a book I enjoy in small sips.

I can only imagine what she does or how she feels, because I’m not allowed in her musical sanctuary. It’s her home, her secret hideout, a creative lair she can always retreat to. I respect that to the fullest and identify my solitary runs as being the exact same thing; comfortable islands of the same in a world ever changing.

I often catch myself wishing I could join her in this moment. I don’t have music coming out of me, only the simple little ramblings and thoughts that I collect here. She, on the contrary, is musical in essence, melodic and light. I secretly hope some of my words reach out to her and fill parts of her space, like her notes warmly surround my quiet daydream.

She doesn’t know I’m writing. I feel the amused excitement of a little child preparing a clumsy surprise, knowing how she must think I’m washing dishes or reading on the couch. Then, for a moment, I cringe at the idea of publishing this small moment of a growing intimacy.

She’s part of my life, now, I echo from the inside, thus she’s a de facto dweller in Flintland.

I really hope she likes it here.