The slanting light of a drowsy sun glints on a clear blue, reflecting images on the plastic of inflatable pool rafts. They hang heavy in the water, most of the air having already been squashed out of them from yesterday’s guests. I can recall only a fraction of these visitors, wandering now as ghosts along the patio while the memory replays, pressed upon a different setting. True, the distance between the pools edge and umbrella-shaded seating has not changed, but the strategically placed tables overflowing with food and the band with their rhythmic songs played from copper-colored instruments and the night, which somehow governed each of these, have all been replaced. It is now a different place, as though environment is made solely by the identity of its inhabitants. Perhaps it is.
I step carefully on the square stone, noting the fragment of a popped balloon that lies near my right foot and the teal-green of it’s skin.
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