◉ 039 | Sex?

The dashboard shows

39.

It’s hot,

but not that hot.

Murter.

An underdog

on the Adriatic coast.

An island.

Barely.

The bridge lifts twice a day.

For a moment,

nothing with wheels crosses.

Boats slide through.

Then it lowers.

Connected again.

—

Beach time.

I don’t want to pay

overpriced camp parking.

Park the car

on the coastal road.

Aim for the shade

of a pine tree.

I walk down the slope

towards the beach.

My slides soften

on hot asphalt.

The beach bar

with a thatched roof

in the distance.

Olive trees.

Crickets.

A blonde drives past,

windows down.

Czech plates.

She stops at a small kiosk

with an improvised ramp.

A guy in a straw hat.

Shades.

He hands her

a paper ticket.

I recognise him.

Bufi.

We drank together

last night.

She pays.

“Sex?”

Bufi asks.

“Ok,”

she says.