Clouds
How do I express this?
The thought comes wordlessly to Bruno as he sits facing the sky beyond the boxy, utilitarian cruise ship docked at Osanbashi Pier. The clouds have caught him again.
He shifts his gaze to the bay itself as the motion of a water taxi catches his eye. Farther out, a container ship makes its way toward the open sea.
The July sun is blazing and merciless, but Shizuka found them two chairs under a canopy tent. They are seated in the corner of a Mexico-themed arrangement of food stands, set between two brick warehouses built before the First World War which now serve as a commercial complex. Tex-Mex fare and various drinks are on offer.
Bruno’s Dos Equis Ambar is getting tepid, so he drains it and thinks about what to get next, ignoring the cognitive dissonance caused by his slowly expanding belly and declining liver function.
Shizuka smiles at him, and he smiles back and remembers that he needs to stay sober enough to get her home safely. In the twilight between youth and middle age, she is sixteen years his junior and less prone to hangovers, though she can’t hold her booze well. He leans over and kisses her.
He gets up to buy another Dos Equis, then returns to his chair and looks again at the sky.
Upon the horizon lay billowing clouds of white and grey, expanding imperceptibly against the unbroken blue expanse, moving him in ways arcane and inexpressible by verse, sketch, or painting. A beauty his soul holds captive and yet longs for.
“I wish I could paint it,” he says to her, eyes still fixed on the clouds.
“You could write it.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“You can.”
He takes a swig of beer and says, “OK. Thanks for finding these chairs.”
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