The cicadas sing so loudly that all the sound on the island is reduced to that vibration. They almost feel the earth tremble beneath their feet.
But it’s not the ground that’s moving, it’s their own sense of equilibrium that stumbles around inside their head. Jim leaves their daydream and sits down tentatively, bumping into the legs of the table and shaking the still life of overturned cups, spilled wine, and empty bottles unfolding over its surface. The room spins around them, and that isn’t the only thing swaying in front of their eyes.
Jackie has unfastened the red velvet robe so that she can move more freely to a rhythm that only she can hear, now that the bar is empty and the instruments have been resting for some time in a corner waiting for the musicians to touch them again. She has her eyes closed and moves her arms around her head with the sinuous cadence of kelp fronds under the water when the soft summer morning tides caress them.
Here's a snip of my Spanish to English translation of fruta madura by gondawanaf that I'm working on for OFMD Rare Ship Week, thanks to #WIPWednesday I actually got started on it. #OFMDRareShips The original archiveofourown.org/works/38254813 is gorgeous and I can only try to honor it somehow.
