Elsa, part one

A hot, thick, wet breeze swaddled Elsa in an uncomfortable blanket. The second she stepped off the plane, her desperate wish was for a breath of cool, dry air. How do people live like this; like they are underwater? The days of the masked pandemic had nothing over tropical summer humidity.  

The drive was long to her sister’s place, as Elsa remembered. A rain forest to one side, and the Pacific Ocean to the other, all along a winding two-lane highway. The open car window blasted relatively cooler air in her face, which gave Elsa the time needed to adapt to the climate. She took in one deep breath after another and slowly exhaled after each one.

Finally arrived at her destination, Elsa dug around her carry-on for the set of keys sent to her, then thanked the Uber driver.

“You good?” the driver helpfully asked.

“Yeah, sure.”

“I don’t have another ride. Happy to walk in with you if you want.”

“No, thanks,” Elsa told the woman. “I’m fine.”

The exterior was a different color than before, but otherwise, Elsa’s sister’s house was much as she remembered it. But, the months of vacancy, especially in a tropical climate, showed its wear. Ants crawled in long lines on just about every countertop and cupboard door. Green Geckos scurried across every wall. Elsa remembered an aggressive spider, smaller than your garden variety, with short legs, bulky girth, and a bite that would make a mosquito envious. The memory made her wince.

That time before, when she came to visit, by the time she arrived at her sister’s, she was covered in bites from any number of venomous vermin. Elsa’s sister quickly ushered her to the bathroom, insisting she immediately shower with citronella soap, then get lathered up with her husband’s black goop (a concoction he brewed up to draw out the venom of any number of tropical insect bites), and afterward come curl up on the couch beside her with a G&T and watch some TV.  

“Just what you need, baby girl.”

Sitting on her sister’s couch that time, a short 45 minutes after her arrival, in an agitated state of itchy discomfort, Elsa silently wept. Staring out at the magnificent panoramic view of the Pacific from her sister’s home high atop an ocean bluff, Elsa thought, whomever it was that first sold the idyllic version of an exciting, exotic trip to Polynesia? What a fucking bastard.

So, here she stood, a twelve years later, in the middle of that unpleasant memory. This time, however, every centimeter of her body was covered in a rich citronella lotion.

“OK house!” Elsa yelled. “Your new mama is here! And, I’m having none of it! Umm-umm. No sir.”

Two geckos scurried to the corners of the walls. Elsa turned her gaze downward and stomped at a group of ants, who also scurried. She scanned the room for those damn spiders.

8 thoughts on “Elsa, part one

      1. I like it when things are left up to me. My dad used to do non-objective work, and when someone would ask him to explain it; he never would. He felt that their interpretation was more important. The questions I have are not important to the picture that you painted here. They are tangential and unimportant. “Gaps” can invite my imagination and enhance my reading experience.

        Liked by 1 person

        1. Hot? Yes. A piece of wilted lettuce I am, like the rest of my fellow Nor’westeners. ;-). But, as the saying goes around here: If you don’t like the weather, just wait a minute.

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