Yellow

He stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

"Come here," he said quietly.  She got up, her eyes never leaving his, and walked over to him from behind the table, as if her feet were gliding, guided by angels. He reached out with one hand, his fingertip on the back of her earlobe, making her yellow earring catch the light and sparkle.  His fingertips brushed her neck and she shivered.

He smiled.

~~~~~

The sunlight crept up his body slowly.  The cool breeze off the ocean had stiffened his muscles overnight.  He awoke slowly, hitching himself over in the hammock so he could enjoy the view as he awoke.  The dream faded slowly from his mind, meshing with the view before him as he adapted to the world of the awake once again.

He could almost see her, walking slowly along the golden beach, the morning sun playing on her yellow hair, the breeze tugging her skirt like an eager laughing child.  The palm trees swayed gently as if her passing disturbed their slumber. The air smelled of salt, of the wet fishing nets, and if he breathed deeply enough, the smell of her hair wet from an early-morning swim.

~~~~~~~~~~~

He wasn't sure where the dream came from.  He was certain he'd had it before--it had that feeling of familiarity, like walking into a house you've been in years before; you feel as though you've been there before, but you're not sure where things are exactly.  You wander down the hallway confident the living room lies before you, but you know not whether its to the right or the left.  You find a set of stairs, and know that at the top, there is a hallway, with a bedroom to the right and the left, and another at the end, but you don't know how you know this.  That's what the dream felt like.  He knew the girl, she felt very familiar, but he never saw her face.  He knew the feeling of her eyes upon his, and sometimes the desire to feel her pressed against him woke him with a start.  Someday, someday.  She, this mystery woman; she was what kept him on the road all these years.  Ever searching, ever moving, ever curious to cross the next hill or round the next curve--maybe she was there, hitch-hiking for a gallon of gas or serving pie at a roadside restaurant.

He told himself he was a wanderer, that it was his nature, his duty.  The more the dream came to visit him however, he began to wonder.  Was there a certain amount of mileage to cover in order to finally see her face?  Did he have to walk into a set number of strange places before he got to see what she looked like, to feel her eyes upon him, to know it was her?

~~~~

Kicking his feet over the edge of the hammock, he shuffled into his flip flops and stood for the first time that day.  Taking a looong stretch, moaning aloud and scratching his sides, he looked around.  A path appeared to his left, turning behind him and heading away from the beach.  Seeing no one, he relieved himself on the side of a coconut tree and then ambled up the path toward town.  The bar was surely closed this early in the day, given the nature of its peak hours, but he remembered seeing a restaurant a few doors down.

The smell of frying fish and the noise of familiar conversation guided his feet.  The place was on his left, under a swinging yellow sign depicting a gull gliding over the waves with a sunrise in the background.  "Morning Glory," he muttered aloud--"sure hope the food lives up to the billing!" Ducking through the built-for-natives doorway, he paused to let his eyes adjust.  It was then he saw her.