Flippant Flamingo #8

10pm and the café was empty. Usually at this point, it was just getting busy, full of revelers enjoying their last few hours before the cruise ship left port, or their evenings after a long day of work. On these beaches, it was very unusual to see the locals mixing with tourists- but the few that found themselves in my café at that hour had usually doffed the drunken teenagers and rude thrill-seekers, and wanted to truly understand the beauty that is my beach. For twenty-five years, I had served them all. Frozen drinks, good food, and desserts that were fit to be eaten only while watching the sun set behind fishermen just starting their evening run. That was truly heaven.

So now, here I sit. The last umbrella in the cupboard floating in the last of the mai-tai, and the last slice of chocolate cheesecake sticking to my fork. Alone, finally enjoying what my customers had been calling heaven. Funny how I never seemed to get the chance to enjoy this while they were around. It is really beautiful, but it just isn’t the same. I need loud voices shouting out to the cooks what’s next on their list. I need customers laughing at the latest antics of the birds (who, we think, had become slightly addicted to the remnants of cruiser’s watery daiquiris). I need a flour-streaked apron around my waist and waves and shouts from the fishermen. Those are the things that made this my heaven.

Paradise, however, is easily lost. When the cruise ships moved to the next island, we were left with little except pollution and poverty. I didn’t see the effects for a while- hard times are the times you want most to be around those that make you smile. After a few months, though, locals started moving away and those who did stay simply didn’t have the money to pay off the tabs they’d been running up with me on the promise they’d eventually pay me back. I didn’t really care about the money- but when they were all too embarrassed to join me in the evenings, I didn’t have much left. I sold what there was, and gave the money to the two employees who had stayed. My tickets were sitting back in the now-bare kitchen, waiting to take me off to another island, another café. I couldn’t leave this place, though. I had to see why they had called it heaven. Now, I suppose I understood.

Draining the glass and poking the umbrella behind my ear, I stood up quickly, resolving to leave and not look back. I knew I was kidding myself, though. I knew I would only be trying to recreate this wherever I next ended up. How can you really say goodbye to heaven?