The Inside Diaries

Cavo Mykonos

She sighed happily, swimming laps around the miniature aquamarine pool, creating ripples with her outstretched arms, but not so much so that the breakfast tray in front of her would topple. On it was a plate of freshly cut ripened watermelon, plus plump green grapes and dark wine-colored cherries—not to mention a pineapple juice mocktail and watermelon juice besides.

Bliss.

Melanija paddled further to the outermost edge of the man-made cavern, Cavo Mykonos, its edges bleached from the soaring rays of the sun, stopping finally to admire, past the leftmost plexiglass, the glimmering sapphire sea below. The Mediterranean? No, she mused with a laugh. Merely the North Atlantic Ocean. Having never taken a geography course in all her years of education, she understood she needed to brush up on her topography skills. In good time.

She glided back to her breakfast tray, nibbling a piece of fruit before seizing the watermelon juice, carrying it to the ledge where she propped it, sipping in silence, admiring the distant rolling hillsides, verdant and lush.

Her week had been, simply put, horrendous. The moment her clients found out she was to go on a week's vacation, they took it upon themselves to assign her...more. More writing, more drafting, more note-taking—

Frankly, she was sick of it.

Why must they wring me out like a sponge? It was as if they—this vague, indeterminate they—were stubbornly determined to siphon out her soul, lest she have any left upon initiating this summer sojourn of hers. Were they so riled up, angry she allowed herself the briefest chance at respite?

Taking another sip—and a second after that, the thought flickered within her that perhaps this was the way of the corporate world—this—writing world—within which she sought to make her mark. Inevitable, really.

Or was it?

For heaven's sake—all she wanted was to breathe. And just—be.

Two hours later, she found herself sitting along the oceanside patio deck, writing furiously, seeking to capture her latest and greatest ideas. The tablecloth was grey and checkered, the glasses before her empty and sparkling, as though awaiting a second guest...or third. The roof consisted of thinly-hewn slats, sun seeping in through the cracks. A swinging rope separated this area from the immediacy of water below, and the three foot high stone corridor several hundred meters beyond, dividing this aqueous tropicalia from the wider world beyond.

Meanwhile, forty minutes away, Morgana continued to pull up her taro plants, harvesting each vegetable for the weekend market rush. One, two, three—she made to pull up another heart-leaf bundle, its weight settling cozily just beneath the soil, as she heard a male voice behind her.

"Where is she?"