The Inside Diaries

Dill

"But I like my own place—"

Melanija took a deep breath, recounting a certain conversation had earlier in the day with Fernando in his soon-to-be-expanded kitchen, airy, bright, and utterly Martha Stewart perfect, if Martha Stewart had a second home in the tropics. Sipping her coconut water, she stared out into the endless aquamarine water, the peach-pink sky indicating a beauteous sunset to follow, linen curtains swaying forth along this open-aired gazebo of sorts.

How had the day started again?

An early morning walk, half-dazed, the tree boughs decorated with folded paper lanterns to usher in the new month of June. A nod to a young limber neighbor, whose nephew was busy riding his tricycle along the sandy path. A wood picket fence, unvarnished, unpainted, behind which stood a bevy of short, sturdy palm fronds.

A day just like any other—

Which, of course, meant paying a visit to Fernando's stately property. 'Visit' was perhaps a loose term, given the fact they were an item as of late. But go she went, traipsing through the familiar wrought-iron gate, past the olive groves and prickling fig branches poking at her shoulder, leaving faint scratches at her shoulders.

Inside he stood—she stood—as he proudly displayed blueprints, copper pans dangling overhead, an emerald-hued bushel of freshly-picked dill kept in a vase atop the kitchen island. "What if you moved in with me?" he'd asked as she sharply inhaled.

"W-with y-you?" came her stammered reply as he nodded. Then came an answer that surprised him—and herself both. "But I like my own place—"

"It's not like you own it," was his unintended barb, as her shackles rose in ardent defense of her own livelihood, her own freedom, her own personal space.

Ouch-that-hurt. "But I do. Sort of," she added. "It is...kind of...mine. You're asking a lot of me—"

"Honestly, I thought you'd be happy—"

"I am!" she exclaimed, then lowered her voice as birds outside had awakened to her tone. "I am—but—it's really soon—"

"A year is too soon?"

She felt a faint blush creep up her cheeks. "Look...I just...really value my personal space. It's a lot to think about. Ok?" And without another word, she'd left. Practically vanished, as a matter of fact. Whizzed out the door, past the olive grove, through those iron gates—

And back to her abode where Catticus was waiting for her. After feeding and brushing him, she packed a few belongings—her phone, notebook, and a book or two—and headed to the newly-built open-air gazebo half an hours' walk away.

She'd arrived to what appeared to be a fishing pier, except modernized, with linen curtains held back, their edges fluttering in the breeze, the sun having lowered, a preparatory pineapple-blush descent. Seating herself at the furthest table, she collected her thoughts and devoted herself to much-needed alone time. Personal space. Reflection. Self-care.

Pulling out her book, a hefty-yet-compact tome of at least eight hundred pages, she began to read, the chirps of seagulls echoing in the distance.