IT CAN’T BE

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Up high on a semicircular terrace overlooking the Mediterranean, she’s come out for some fresh air, summer night late July, the glazed doors sifting the sound of music and light chatter, glasses clinking compliments after the show, a good show, and now people are dancing. The few outside with her are all lit and then cast back into the moonlit darkness by the lighthouse further up on the coast. Suddenly, the fitful white beam flashes a bundle down below on the shore. “It can’t be!” She lifts her evening dress and runs down the triple winding staircase; she’s on the pier, the sand, and finally her feet in the pitch-dark water. The dress falls and sequin red flaps make bloody waves. The bundle is nothing! Gone playing tricks on someone else… The Mediterranean is a closed sea – blissful swims in the afternoon light, far-away songs of people dying on boats.

People are watching, but on which coast her eyes cannot tell.

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