Leaving the island is always easier than it is to return.
It seems life arrests mid-stroll, mid-conversation, mid-everything the moment my plane skims away across the waves, only to lurch into motion as I step back onto the jetty years later.
I chatter, to fill the silences.
“Really?” they murmur languidly, eyes glazing, and “…how lovely”.
I steer the conversation to them.
“Oh, you know…” they say, and “… pretty much as ever.”
Why do I feel they’re politely waiting for me to leave again?
And is that a collective sigh of relief I detect above the sea-plane’s accelerating engines?
Two thirds of the way through summer already. 😦 But Friday Fictioneers marches on, whatever the season. Thanks to Rochelle.