During the day we do what we godless always do on holidays: go pink and visit churches. At nights we grill fish and slabs of lamb and talk. Everyone is being very careful with me. And when we gather on the veranda in the evening around the big plastic table for meals of barbecued fish, lamb and fresh vegetables, alongside the round of talk about work problems, life decisions, plans to move house or switch jobs, the subject of death is tiptoed around.
It is very beautiful here. Maybe that’s why I feel so ugly. Our neighbour Yoshko left us a tray of figs for breakfast and now my fingers are sticky on the laptop keys as I tap away in the sun on the terrace overlooking the bay; he brings these every morning and is now out on the water standing up, paunchy, silver haired, red-bellied, in his rowing boat checking fishing lines attached to old plastic bottles which he uses as floats. All around are mountains, and opposite us a beautiful small town of warm grey stone and red slate, palm trees and church spire.
A strong wind blew last night upturning our sun loungers and smashing a chunk out of the plastic table we gather round for breakfast.
And, as happens on holiday, at night we each dream and lay awake not dreaming, our nocturnal thoughts filled with the unsaid, with the anxieties and sorrows we bring with us from home along with the underwear and sun block.
This house at night alive with sleepless souls mulling over careers and love lives and mortality, overdrafts and things to do lists. At breakfast in the sun we recount our dreams.
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