The Boat Man had come and gone, peddling his drugs to the adventurous tourists in the midday sun. He'd paddled his mud-brown canoe up to the sugar-sand beach, bellowing to the sun worshipers, "Who wants to buy some?" He motioned to the curious newcomers and to those who had visited before. His dark brown skin contrasted with the pale women, their white breasts with rosy pink nipples taking on a blush from too much sun too soon. He smiled, watching their hips lightly sway as they walked to the water's edge, eager to partake of his goods. Some wanted more. He touched the top of his head for luck, his hair in dreads, knotted on top with a leather thong. From the shade of a palm tree, a tightly muscled midnight black security guard gazed at the men and women as they paraded down to the boat. Speed, ganja, crack, very special, Jamaican blend. "Who wants to buy some?"
She was native, a student from Kingston, her dark coffee brown skin glistening in the bright sunlight with the sweet coconut oil the portly American had poured on her. She'd stayed back from the shore, lying on a padded lounge chair as he made the short trek to the boatman and his wares. For fifty American dollars and a bag of ganja, she'd devoured the small circumcised penis that swung freely between his legs as he swaggered back to her. American men were so predictable, and so easily entertained.
* * *
A shimmering gold river of sun cut across the water as the ball of fire sunk slowly in the Jamaican blue sky. The boat man had come and gone, and the American slept soundly in his air conditioned room, the rum and ganja like a heavy cloud inside his head. The student studied the soft light by the pool, then dove into the water, surfacing as the beads of water cascaded from her nubile body. Tomorrow was Sunday, a day of rest. There would be no mind numbing classes, no aging American tourist with a need for oral relief. Sunday was her special day. A day to sleep, to read, to walk the water's edge and dream. A day to listen to her music and dream of her music man. His promise of escape seemed closer than ever.
She stretched out on a brightly colored towel, splashes of melon pink and turquoise blue, mint green and frangipani orange caressing her deep brown skin. Late shadows lingered on the beach as the sun descended behind the stucco covered guest suites lining the far side of the pool. She pulled a cd player from her woven bag, put on the headphones and pushed the play button. His rhythmic guitar played for her alone, and his soft voice whispered in her ears. "Somewhere, sometime, my moonlight lady, we sail away on an ocean breeze. Find a place, my moonlight lady, we make love under tall palm trees."
The tourists had vanished to their rooms for some late afternoon delight, to the dining rooms for the evening buffet. She was alone with her music man. "Dream with me my moonlight lady. Whatever you dream it might come true. Dream of me my moonlight lady. Dream of me, I dream of you."
She felt the knee press into her back, pushing her into the towel, and the sharp steel blade of a knife slide under her throat. Struggling to turn over, gasping as the knife sliced through her skin, she watched in horror as her crimson blood added yet another bright color to the beach towel. She lifted her head and could feel the gaping hole where her wind pipe had separated. She tried to breath but no breath would come. Bright white lights exploded in her eyes and still she struggled. Thrashing on the ground, she rolled her lithe body and landed on her side. For a brief moment her vision cleared and she viewed her assassin. Her brown eyes grew wide and she fought to speak, but no sound would come. Her lips formed the word as she pulled back, seeking refuge in the towel. "You?"
The final explosion felt like a fire cracker in her head and she heard her music man one last time. "Dream of me, I dream of you."
© Don Bruns