Sundown

Thanks, Bob, I do like the goats too!

Like a ball of molten glass, the sun sank into the west behind the ocean-hugging silhouette of Klein Bonaire, the small uninhabited island a half-mile offshore. All up and down the leeward shore of the main island ice cubes tinkled against glass as resort guests, snowbirds, and permanent residents alike settled into patio chairs to celebrate the survival of another day. Rum paired with pineapple and guava juices swirled in sweaty glasses and rinsed the persistent taste of salt from the parched tongues. One hand trembled as it lifted crystal to lips, the glass chattered against perfect teeth, the villa behind her reproachful in its silence. She stood bathed in the reddened rays of the dying sun wondering where Jack had gone and when he would return. The sound of tires on the crushed coral drive erased the minute wrinkle that had begun to grow between her brows. She set her glass down on a palm leaf coaster and smoothed a hand over her hair before levering a smile up from the depths of her emergency bag of tricks and turning to walk through the darkening rooms. She left light in her wake, one lamp in each room, as she made her way to the front door.

I'm getting anxious to have written about each picture in my Bonaire calendar so I can assemble all the little pieces and make them into a whole. Should be interesting.

--Barbara