Sorobon

Only a dusting of the white flaky stuff. Whew, we dodged that one. I'm glad you're feeling better, Bob. There's nothing like a dose of the mid-winter cabin fever crazies to make life nearly unbearable. Thank heavens for sunny days; I feel the difference most acutely too. And did you mean that you found an apartment? One with more than one room? That'd be great! Now we just have to get back into the writing mode. Maybe another week of exercises will help.

Diego walked out of the sea and sat on the beach staring at the calm bay crisscrossed by the primary colored windsurfers. The stiff tradewinds that filled their transparent sails dried the salt water on his dark skin and blew grains of sand that stuck to him and pelted his eyes. He shook his fingers dry and carefully extracted a cigarette from the pack folded in his t-shirt, then turned his back to the wind to light it. The clink and snick followed by the stink of the lighter fluid that rose from the Zippo in his hand took him back to his days as a young boy lying in bed with his three brothers listening to his daddy and uncles talk and laugh and smoke deep into the night. Sharon wanted him to quit smoking "for his health." How could he make her understand that some days the cool metal lighter in his picket was all that connected him to himself?

Well, that's not so bad. I feel like the separate parts of the story are gathering closer to each other and might actually be getting to some sort of climax. I don't know, only time will tell. See you Thursday.

--Barbara