Departure. Passport- check.

The sun is too low today. Perhaps, it too is hungover. It teases me though- promising me more minutes here. My dog’s leash is wrapped loosely around my toe and the sand is kissing my bum. I am sitting cross-legged and I peer at my beach’s small expanse as I write this. The tractor’s combs teach me that perhaps they were on to something when they conceived the small zen-garden trays of sand.

This is my moment. It always is. I wish work didn’t await me. I could be more productive here. But, politics dictate otherwise—not to mention this is my last day per contract. Whether one more days exists escapes me. The topic only hovers. I haven’t pressed the point. I want to leave or perhaps, stay. More freedom, less pay. I don’t need a New York salary anymore. I have finally let go of my overhead, and have subletted by New York duplex. I hold on to memberships-Zipcar, Gym. I suppose the commitment phobe is procrastinating.

I am going to New York next week to ship belongings for the first time in my year here. Funny, how losing my job made me to decide to commit.

I fear that hormones and being amongst my “kind” will prompt me to change my mind. Ctrl-z.

I push that thought aside. I crinkle the sand between my toes. Stay.

The sun is coming to—so am I. I need more coffee though. Last night’s memories return. Restaurant Opening. Cameras. Never-ending glasses of wine. Black label for him. Two bottles always stored in his breast pocket—just in case.

A dinner after. With a girl from Spain, now living in Punta Cana. Exotic. From afar she receives a jealous woman’s criticism. Tight dress. Comfortable with her sexuality. These are things that should not be punished. I am the opposite. My back exposed. My dress long. A rich blue. We complement each other perfectly. And I am invited.

Private jet. Venezuela. I know nothing else. The plane leaves in a few hours. The invite teases me and makes me choose. I would leave the office how many hours early. And what is my excuse?

If I stay, my weekend will commence with Veuve Cliquot’s Rose Festivity- I must wear pink they say. Saturday evening, I will lace myself into a black corset. Stockings. Garters. A constraint- a far departure from my daytime hours where I will ride horses through the mountains and roll in the waves of the ocean.

I leave my sand. I now post this from my desk. The weekend’s options dance in my mind. 

The jet flirts with my spontaneity. The unknown awaits. Decisions. Fuck, I have ten minutes.