It just wouldn't go away. That sound of surf slashing into the beach, tearing triangles of sand from their peaceful piling light scissors ripping through thin cotton. Vera had returned to the beach. Hot and cool Miami, euro-southamerican miami, tan and silicone-breasted Miami, 6th borough of New York City Miami. It gave her energy and time, escape and fantasy.
She walked past the Art Basel site, now filed with a plastic surgeons conventions and a home and garden show. The Brazilians and French were still there. And at passover, Israelis, South American and Brooklyn Jews held huge Seders at the Hotels. It where she needed to be. Out of the West, not of the West, yearning for the centrality of East Coast identity, yet laughing at it when she returned to Santa Fe. It was the rapping, the pounding that wouldn't go away. She knew that her heart was being pulled to shreds and that she had to somehow bring Andre to the States.
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I loved this one so much, when I found it in this week's folder I had to post it, even though it was from last week. I love the way you describe Miami - just perfect! And I love 'That sound of surf slashing into the beach, tearing triangles of sand from their peaceful piling light scissors ripping through thin cotton.' Really terrific writing.
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