Though I cannot see it through the dark, I can hear the ocean from here; the surf crashing against the rocks, the current sweeping the water back and forth:
Swoosh Swish Swash
Breakers throwing themselves onto boulders, pushing into crevices:
Plop—Plip—Polyp Plup—Ploop—Polyp Polyp—Plop—Plop
No two waves sound alike.
The guest bedroom is overlooking the bay from the villa’s second floor.
The rich are not happier, I can tell you that. They simply conduct their feuds and brood over their problems in specious, tastefully furnished houses. Fine wine stacked in the racks. Porches hover over the ocean. Expensive cars in the driveways.
Blue blooded New Englanders. Well educated. Well traveled. Well manners. (Their vacation homes were bought while my grandparents escaped flaming Europe.) I cleverly interject a comment into their conversation here and there. To get their polite attention for one, perhaps two minutes. Unfamiliar with their terminology, following the chat around the dinner table feels like cracking open a beer bottle with my teeth.
I do not ski
I am not well connected
I am not even from here
In the morning I will wake to the summery sun pouring through the windows, and step downstairs to the morning room for some coffee. But tonight I shall lounge on the wide guest bed with my laptop for company and listen to the ocean, as the surf crashes against the rocks:
Plep—Plop—Polyp Ploop—Plip—Plup Plop—Plip—Ploop
I peer into the inky night, and the ceaseless waves wash away my worries.
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