Tipping the Hourglass

I spend the day reading.
I take breaks to hobble down the beach or
I swim in the enormous sea until it spits me back out onto the sand.
I eat omelets and french fries for breakfast. I eat ice cream for lunch. I have two glasses of white wine before dinner. Dinner is Pad Thai and bananas in coconut milk.
I eavesdrop on conversations about nervous breakdowns and sailing in tsunamis and broken promises.
I watch couples sharing sunblock, holding hands on walks along the white sand and I don't envy them.
I swap travel tales with a couple from Ireland, watch a lascivious french man, burnt leathery sienna from too much sun, ensnare the Thai barmaid, and duck all advances from the gregarious Australian surfer. I don't envy any of them either.
I share my lap with the campground tabby cat who follows me wherever I go, scratching at my door if I disappear into my hut for more than a minute.
I decline an invite to dinner in town and loll instead in the hammock, reading greedily through the last hazy rays of dusk. I don't think, for even a moment, that I'm missing anything.
I read by the dim lights in the empty campground lounge, drinking my wine, and chair dancing to Manu Chao.
I am 20 pages from the end of "The Book Thief" when I lose my struggle with sleep.