island time

               It was three-o-clock on a Tuesday. Misery shuffled away from the brightness and bustle of the city into the café. The sound of the bell in the doorway signaled her arrival, and her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. The muted sounds of fellow coffee drinkers released the tension in her shoulders. The chalk letter C of the familiar font on the menu was still smudged from last week. She found solace in the cashier’s friendly smile and, “Hi, what can I get you today?”             She hummed the same old tune from every week as she walked to her corner table. Every Tuesday, she found herself at the same café from when she got off work until closing. Tuesdays were the only days she could get home early, but she never did. Her notepad and laptop sat on the round wooden table, primarily untouched. Rather than complete work outside of the office, she observed. She didn’t know what ...

On our way home after the storm, we saw the windy sea, and we knew to try to outrun the waves.   We pulled our motorcycles over, left them on the opposite side of the Malecón.   We dashed across the wet street when only the sky was in its foamy reflection and it was clear of speeding taxis.   The waves rose behind the wall. Our eyes focused on one building up like a small tsunami.   We waited until the last possible second, holding our breaths, until we had to flee from the crashing water.   The streets were empty, but our hearts were as full as the waves that drenched our clothes.   Time was flying away from us in Cuba. I was hyper-aware of it when the old white taxi left behind its diesel fumes, driving away from our laughter.