The day bleeds to death in the far reaches of the Indian Ocean. Crimson reflections slice the waves. We sit on a dock watching the flicker of leaping fish and the flying feet of little boys, skittering like crabs over the sand. Down the island, lights quiver to life one by one.
Orchestra music scratches from a transistor radio.
Strictly speaking, we don't do much in this antique port town. We watch the mornings rise up to the decrepit rooftops, wander our days away and sit back down for sunsets. The fishing boats roll out at dawn, lumber home at dusk. We watch and walk, little more. In this city of shadows and spice, we feel like children who've sneaked into a museum after hours.