Weather Memories

The dunes are higher then sea level; funny really since most of the land they are protecting is lower. It’s a crummy little country with no real influence in the world and thriving on hypocrisy. Yet for the moment it is home. The sea is dark grey with a hint of deep dirty green on the horizon it meets the gunmetal grey sky. Sea gulls scream in the stormy wind as they get blown further inland. The dun grass is whipping again my legs dry and yellow, even the sand under my feet is grey, colourless and gloomy the whole coast smells of rain. The storm is coming you can feel it in the air and smell it on the wind, you can even see it in the distance the die hearts who had gone out for a walk hurry away the bright red windbreakers the only real spot of colour in the whole landscape.
Funny how such a depressing landscape can be comforting. Big cities can be grey and gloomy too, especially the outer sections. At least it was the case in the city where I grew up. As long as it isn’t raining the weather makes me nostalgic, absurd really since I have no reason to be. I never really lived in the city where I was born; I never really worked there, never really struggled with life. And I also know that will never be able to adapt to the live there, I blame it on the lack of predatory instincts. The contentment and security of the West, at least the part of it I now inhabit, has dulled all but the major survival skills. The wind picks up and I turn away heading back in to the habituated arias that start almost right behind the dunes. Houses that are identical replicas of one another stand in neat rows as far as the eye can see. From the air this country looks toy like almost as if a giant child had been playing with it’s dolls and left them standing when giants died out. Instead of going back to seek shelter in my little attic flat I head out in to the heart of the little tourist oriented city in search of entertainment and some human company that is actually tolerable if only for a while. It is autumn and it is early the bar’s only patrons at this time are the diehard drunks. The clubs and more trendy bars will not open for a long while yet. Not until the sun has set and has been below the horizon for hours and hours. I don’t mind, not really the youth of nowadays is not to my taste really. Too many designer labels and too little on the inside. Sometimes I think the life they lead has hollowed them out somehow. Or maybe they were never supposed to be anything but shallow. I do not dwell on these things too often: thoughts such as these spoil my appetite. As I walk through the narrow streets I see, or the correct term is I notice, a small café hiding in the shadows of two far more noticeable ones. The only clue to its existence is the neon sign advertising Heineken above the door and a colourful flayer in the window advertising an evening especially for witches and modern time conjurers, the followers of the Goddess. It happens to be this day and I rejoice at my luck. Inside the café is dark and cosy five groups of tables and in the back a bar. The bartender is a young girl who is trying to look like she is mature and responsible and is failing miserably. I lose interest as soon as I have my drink. Whisky burns my throat as I sit and wait for the witches and wizards of this era to come through the door. They come several hours later and by that time I am slightly drunk and certainly hungry. Pretty girls and boys in second hand clothing and painted faces dressed all in black or in bright primary colours one by one they come in and settle down with drinks of their own. Beer is the drink for most who are college students who can’t afford anything more expensive. They come in one by one or in groups and as more alcohol flows start to interact. The groups don’t interest me as interesting as the dynamics in them would be they are not what I am looking for tonight. I watch for the loners who even among their own are hesitant to join the fun, the ones who stay on the fringes watching the rest. As the party becomes more boisterous I see one of the youngsters slipping away pale skinned and tragic eyed like a shadow moving to the door and follow. I have waited long enough. The streets are still mostly empty in the magic hours here: already dark but not yet dark enough to draw out the partying crowds. The lithe youth is easily drawn in to a dark alleyway not even really struggling. My teeth sink in to soft flesh of the throat and the half pained moan is music in my ears as spicy blood flows in to my mouth. I am no longer hungry.