Somehow it is all out of place up here on this balcony, I have been waiting, and I continue to wait.
The wind blows and I am carried away, looking down at myself from above. I am sitting on decorative iron, in front of a decorative table, which has been laid with a small square of white linen.
The breeze rushes through my hair and I slap the tablecloth to keep it from flying away. In the next instant I am snatching my napkin and placing my foot on my purse and the balcony shudders.
The night is so dark, there are no clouds in the sky, each pinpoint of light from the stars shines down clearly. A glow from the restaurant lights up my face, partial shadows pervade, and I wait.
Thirsty I lift up my glass to find that it is full of wriggling creatures, I gasp but drink anyway then ask the waiter for more.
I am above it all, exclusive, privileged to be here, then why does the balcony feel as though it will shudder and fall.
Creaking and swaying, wood rotting away, yet I wait. Then it suddenly becomes clear to me, I am in the wrong place.
Am I really up there in that balcony, why would I be as I walk past I can see that it wouldn't fit a table at all.
I contemplate this as images move past my view, the ocean, stark blue vivid colored fish on the wall. The overhanging shades of the stores on Center St., I ponder these things as I get in my car to drive home.