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March 2009, vol 5 no 1
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Cynthia Rowe Sun Music We play Spanish music on the stereo, drape our bodies in tender white linen. The walls are white. The sun on our skin is white hot when we venture onto the esplanade, blinking. Surfers saunter past in flower-scattered shorts with boards slung under their arms, sunscreen smeared on ears and lips. While we lick sorbet, lemony, tangy, cool as ice dripping on a grain of sand. wave sets. . . tucking white-edged hibiscus into her sarong |