...and as the escaped parasol slithered across the night breeze, unseasonably floral fabric ironically faded to perfection, that's about when i realized i could never leave the beach. wet sand curdled between my bitten fingertips, clinging to the shallow indentations in my skin. my fingerprints seemed to melt back into the earth, leaving a strange new not-person that suddenly needed a warm sweater and some advil.
arguably, i was home. i just didn't know the blueprints quite yet.
the moonlight washed over me, pooling in my head, providing a new set of teeth that i didn't quite have room for. i tasted the stars, million-dollar pinpricks in a velvet tapestry. lavish indeed. and inviting. yes, definitely inviting. and warm. nothing like the starchy checkerboard picnics in the park i'd become accustomed to attending every sunday at three.
and then, in the most perfect of all perfect moments, the sky opened up and rained thousands of coloured balloons. every shape and size, for miles either way. the tranquil sky was thick with latex souls on a seaward pilgrimage. it seemed to prove that as long as you had patience and taxi money, you could find your way home. and home is the best place you will ever feel.
but then the winds kicked up and trillions of balloons danced across the sandy pavilion. they followed my parasol, eastward towards morning.
...and as the escapees danced across the air currents, transparent spheres frighteningly close to the truth, that's about when i realized that it didn't matter whether i could leave the beach or not. because a parasol is a parasol, but you'll never see a night like this again.
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