LOVESTAINED

ANGEL AND THE TEN POUNDS OF COKE

As the sun rises higher in the sky, the civilians of Saint Martin begin to stir from their slumber. The sound of bird chants grows louder, a symphony of chirps and tweets echoing through the air. The swaying palm trees and their rustling in the gentle breeze provide a welcome shade from the intense heat of the morning sun.

Meanwhile, the streets begin to come to life as people start their day. Beetle cars, their colorful exteriors polished to a shine, putter down the roads while vintage bikes lean against walls and buildings. The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafts from open windows as the sound of clattering dishes and utensils fills the air.

As the morning progresses, the vibrant colors of the buildings and houses become even more striking in the bright sunlight. Reds, blues, yellows, and greens blaze with intensity, casting brilliant reflections on the pavement. The air is thick with the scent of tropical flowers, the vibrant petals bursting with color against the verdant foliage.

Everywhere you look, the people of Saint Martin are smiling and greeting each other with warm hellos.  Seagulls glide through the sky with ease, their calls and cries carried by the gentle breeze, fishermen cast their lines, in hopes of a catch on their boats bobbing gently, like a delicate match.
The sound of laughter and music fills the air as locals and tourists begin to fit the streets, their energy vibrant and spirit full of adventure as tourists capture ​​pictures of the towering hills in the distance; so grand, creating a picturesque sight of a tropical land.

As the bustling markets come alive, a woman dashes through the small crowd, her obsidian kinky curls flying in the wind like ribbons of coal. Her golden-brown skin glistens in the sun's rays, adding to the vibrant energy of the scene. With each hurried step, she weaves through the stalls, past merchants offering their wares with friendly calls.

She weaves through the crowd, dodging bikes and cars with finesse. The colorful houses and palm trees blur in her sight as she rushes forward with all her might.

With agile bounds, she seems to have forsaken the necessity of shoes, clutching her black flip-flops tightly in her grasp. The harsh texture of the stone-paved streets gradually toughens the soles of her bare feet. Without a flinch, she treads upon sharp rocks, enduring the pain they inflict.

She turns onto an alleyway for a shortcut, ducking under clotheslines as she dashes through, sidestepping a woman with a babe on her hip, apologizing profusely with "Vraiment désolée!". (Very sorry!)

But in her haste, she catches the eye of local shop owners who greet her warmly, tipping their hats with friendly gestures. They invite her for supper with their family that evening, promising a warm meal, a true Saint Martinian greeting.

She thanks them for their kind invitation and promises to return for a celebration. But for now, she must continue her race through the winding streets of the vibrant place.

Amid the bustling streets, a disruption in pace, she darts through the crowd with haste, brushing past civilians, their cusses in tow, but onward she goes, her destination in tow. Taxis and bikes honk as she races past, narrowly dodging, with each step a dangerous game with death. With a careless wave and a shout of "Pardon!" She moves ahead, her goal still undone.

With a sharp turn down cobbled steps, her dark eyes light up at the sight of the front of the resort just up ahead. Nestled in the heart of Saint Martin, the resort beckons with its breathtaking beauty.

The resort itself is a stunning masterpiece, its vibrant colors and intricate design blending harmoniously with the natural beauty that surrounds it. Brightly hued umbrellas dot the garden lounge, inviting guests to relax in the shade and sip on frosty cocktails. Tiki torches line up the entrance, made to light up the night that would cast a warm, golden glow over the entire resort, illuminating every corner with a magical aura.