Coughing, we walk down to the sea.
We weave along the sidewalks, sometimes side by side, sometimes single file, past the restaurants starting the evening service, past the French Polynesian Chinese bakery that is closed, though I see the super friendly proprietress cleaning a counter inside.
We pass the juice stand and closed antique store, the horizontal striped raincoat store, the ice cream, liquor, and souvenir shops, sometimes those all in one place.
And there, across the road, is the sea, always colorful.
In half a year, it may have never been this colorful.
The wind blows dramatic waves in flashing whitecaps. The wind has also blown all the muddying fluff out of the hues.
Shadows throw the blues into a deepsea lapis lazuli. Sunlight throws specks of gold scudding across the surface, and the aqua, well, it’s what the whole area is named for.
We make our way across the road and the riot of humanity.
We stand at the little rail and watch the water.
In shadow and light, tide and wave, seven colors I count.
Then, back aching, coughing, we make our way, stopping just once for a juice, home.
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