She’s parked in front of our bungalow, a solo chick on a tandem kayak, just floating and bobbing and staring out to sea. I love this kind of shit.
I love this kind of shit because I enjoy a good supposition. I wonder what’s going on for her to be draping her kayak with melancholy this beautiful afternoon. Who was supposed to be sitting on the poignantly empty seat in front of her? Are we looking at a massive throw down situation between holidaying lovers? Did her mate throw himself overboard, an absence she didn’t notice for twenty minutes because she wasn’t stopping the chitchat to even take a breath? Is she meditating? Or are we simply looking at a shortage of single kayaks? Where is her mate, assuming there is one? Is he back in their bungalow searching for porn for an efficient mid afternoon wank? Maybe she has an imaginary friend? Maybe he does, right about oh-oh-oh now?
The tropical sun may be drenching her but she’s not bathed in happiness from where I’m sitting. And I’m only a few metres from her. Or maybe she just has a particularly bad case of Resting Bitch Face http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=resting%20bitch%20face and she’s actually happy with her solitude.
I know only too well about Resting Bitch Face, as I can suffer from it. It only recently become a named affliction but I’ve known it to be part of my genetic reality for a long long time. It’s why I smile so much.
I could call out to her and lure her into a conversation. I’m close enough. But the truth is I really can’t be bothered. Plus, I don’t actually want to know because her story is unlikely to be as good as I want it to be. She may not even have one.
Einstein said imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited to all we now know and understand, while imagination embraces the whole world. I’m with him.
Time for a vodka martini.