Boys and girls sit on benches beneath the canopy of trees lining the walkway, lapping at ice-cream cones. Others cut zigzagging paths down the walkway on their roller skates. Red and white parasols shelter hot dog stands. I begin whistling, both hands shoved into the pockets of my denim skirt. The low notes blend together. If I try to whistle too hard, I veer off-key. But what manner of idiot just stands there grinning all the time? So, I sing these songs all day.
A bus pulls up from behind, letting off Emi. She gives a big wave and runs up to me. Then, the scent of the sea. Emi and I walk along by the pier, looking at the Hotel New Grand off to the side. Emi joins in with an organ-like tone. Our jam continues, on and on. Finally, we find a chance to get back to the hook.
She seems to know the song too, and we really get into it. And, like an avalanche or so we think , we slide into the ending. The End. Or notβI decide it was a pause, and then add one last phrase.
I think. My days here are like tissue paper too, I supposeβI float around, dazed, and any memories of the past are blurred and hard to pin down. One wonders. He places a delicate fluted glass on the counter, and then a freshly opened bottle. Emi glares as he performs this routine.
Apparently the air on this planet does you good. Stood beside the jukebox, I touch the screen and begin scrolling down through an endless stream of song names and numbers. I get sick of sifting through them all, so I just choose three tracks without much thought, and head back to the bar.
