Jack, Jess, myself. Warm evening sun. Restlessness guides us to the rocks below the city walls. Between ocean and city, we follow the wall northward.
Smells of fish and poverty, salt and bad drainage. As the air freshens we sit to watch. Men and boys, cats and gulls. A constant stream of silver dinners pulled from the waters. We talk about careers and countries as fish drown in stagnant pools while others are emptied and splayed, still jerking in a final defiance against death and man. We are good friends. I will miss them.
THE LAST SUPPER
Fish vendors. Four scampi, three fish, two salads, one handful of shrimps, six Cokes, bread. “600Dh”, “No, 200Dh”, “500”, “250”, “400”, “300”, “OK, good, 300Dh”. And we sit, outside table, gas light. There’s a holiday’s ending chill in the sea breeze. It carries with it southern Spain, sky-blue mountain cities, souks, African chaos and beaches. It carries sweet memories, new friendships, laughter, adventure and happiness. And here we sit together, six, eating together at the top west of Africa, travelers, friends.
