Day to Devour

On spending an entire day on a balcony

Sitting on the balcony of our holiday apartment, I gaze out at the blocky concrete pier. A cluster of shirtless elderly men, their skin the colour of gravy, gather around buckets and tackle boxes. On the left side of the pier, steps descend into the sea. The early swimmers seem undeterred by the ocean's vastness, their heads bobbing on the dark blue surface before vanishing from view. The sound of waves crashing into the rocks is so immense, it settles my mind like white noise.

Your eyes are still puffy from a long sleep as you hold your coffee cup in both hands. You take your first sip, brows furrowed, and your shoulders instantly lower. You seem deep in thought. We silently watch the village waking up in our dressing gowns, the morning still chilly with the sun hidden behind the mountain. A street cleaner sings a song as he gathers banana tree leaves scattered on the road. Locals sip their coffee in the bar below.

Breakfast is freshly baked bread delivered by a white van covered in pictures of exotic baked goods. Croissants like crescents of chubby brioche, sticky pastries studded with green and orange candied fruit. The driver, who we have come to call Bread Lady, beeps her horn while turning onto the street to alert the residents. People gather by the side sliding door and buy sugared donuts as big as their heads.

I like my breakfasts simple: crusty bread, butter, eggs, jam, and fruit. The tomatoes, with more flesh than seeds, perfectly complement the crispy fried eggs. I mop up the runny yolks, aware of your eyes on me as I tuck into the morning spread. You seem content with just your coffee and watching me indulge. The creamy butter, in contrast with the rough texture of the bread, melts on my tongue, leaving a cool, velvety trace.

You go for a walk and come back, softer, having worked something out. You’ve brought a papaya that you picked from a tree. Looking at me with those twinkling eyes, you brush strands of hair behind my ear, hold my face in your hands, and say sorry for what transpired yesterday. It makes me feel like I’m your girl again. We leave the messy table for what it is. Banana tree leaves rustle in the sea breeze.

A fisherman catches a seagull on the end of his line, and everyone pitches in to set it free. Yesterday, he fared better, arriving at the bar with a fresh barracuda to show off to the curious punters on the terrace. I asked to touch its teeth. You sang along to the classic rock songs playing on the TVs, unaware that you’re getting the words wrong. Your face was so beautiful in that moment, a few pints in, when the storm behind your eyes settled.

The sun sinks low, throwing out electric orange streaks against the cool tones of dark blue. It’s winding down with the rest of us. At night, we drag the inside chairs onto the balcony and gaze up at the stars with craned necks. My lips lie loosely on the skin of your neck, and I breathe in through my mouth. The air that strokes my tongue reminds me of the silkiness of butter. Papaya juice drips down your chin.

Down at the pier, the fishermen are still there, though a new crew has taken their place. Let the constant roar of the sea sooth us to sleep for a few more nights. Over the next few days, this view will still be ours—just us two, wearing as little clothing as possible

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