That afternoon the sea was a flat gray table, a gigantic slab of slate laid on the sand of the coast. The sails we stood out like white butterflies impaled, the wind-surfing moved just past the signs indicating the maximum limit for bathing. On the beach boredom reigned supreme, the music of radios mingled with the cries of bathers, taken away by the wind died down. Under the umbrella, hot in the shade, I was reading a book by Kundera: at the end of every chapter I stopped to look around and drink greedy gulps of fresh water.
Daniel was sitting on deck chairs next to me. She had a bikini with flowers and the sun was drawing on his streaked blond hair. He took a handful of sand, in the closed fist and the left filter slowly and the wind picks up the flow of gold grains and brought them to the sea, toward the white handkerchiefs of sails, to the coves on the other side of the gulf, where cotton-like white clouds were piled above the pine trees and the towers of condominiums.
The wind blew stronger hours, the wind-surfing off the coast began to fly, the hem of the umbrella is moved along the north-east wind waves: a case of Daniel's face was filled with light, marveled at his regular features, the tan. After completing his game again, opened his fist, dropped the sand, rubbed his hands. "Love," I said, "you had time in their hands" ...
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