Twist

It rains. Tiny, slow droplets descend like tropical mist onto the trees, the house. Hours pass slowly, and still much too quickly. I think of returning to New York and dread the thought. How pleasant to linger in the dream. My skin tastes salty, sand and seaweed mingle in my hair.

I was giddier when I was younger. Am I too old for sparks and stardust, now?