Truth in Fiction
Beauty at the End of the World
Because I don’t believe in calendars. A short story
In the afternoon, Luciano and I walk above town from one low hilltop to another. We speak of the breath in our lungs. It’s a gift, he says. It’s a gift, I say. The breeze that slips in from the ocean agrees. It’s a gift.
When the sun dips, we go down to the cove where waves lap the fishing boat planks. From there you can see all the way to the horizon, and — if you close your eyes and open your imagination wider — the other side of the world. They say the world is pulsing with people there. They say vibrant winds move ships closer to home, and home shores push even the lonely darkness further into the night.
Of course, Luciano and I both came to the end of the world voluntarily. If we didn’t know what we were doing when we first arrived, we quickly learned — and we chose to stay anchored here, surrounded by sea, cut off from the dominant cultures that clasp the world so tightly.
We enter the harbor tavern with the intent to stay until the moon illuminates the highest palm. Rafa, says Luciano after the bar girl comes and goes, tell me about the time you went to Cuba.
It was spring I say, although I don’t believe in calendars. The waves on the malecón…
