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NEGRONI STORIES

The sunset.

Jun 13
2 min read

It is early June. I've already been here a month.

Long enough for the island to stop feeling like a destination and start feeling like a pace.

Work is here too.

This morning I had to go up to Chora.

On the way, I stopped for a cigarette.

The yellow church with the blue dome, this place deserves a pause.

Started work at 4pm, it's just me serving myself again today.

Even the boss seems to have adjusted.

He currently holds the world record in Solitaire. Almost a week now.

He looks like coffee and pizza had a baby.

The wind decides the agenda, and the sea changes color without asking anyone's permission. Somewhere between the sea and the bar, I realized the thing chasing me all winter had been me all along.

I made a Negroni and raised it toward the boss across the room. A reminder that he's paying for it. He barely looked up; solitaire demands focus.

We're closing a little earlier today, not a bad decision, the sea has already finished its work for the day. Nothing here feels unpredictable, nothing feels destructive. Except the name. Poseidonia.

A place named after a god known for storms, shipwrecks, and revenge, somehow dedicated to peace. The irony isn't lost on me.

Most afternoons, I find myself staring at the horizon. That's what I'm about to do again.

I've become remarkably consistent with my eye workouts.

Not looking for anything, just looking. My eyes have become so rested that I don't recognize them.

Maybe that's what peace is.

I just took the Negroni and walked to the rock at the back, the sunset office.

It is designed like one; at that hour, it's hard to tell whether the Negroni is reflecting the sunset or contributing to it.

The sun was already low, low enough for the light and the waves to start composing together.

Across the horizon, the moon was already waiting for its shift. Patiently, never interrupts. Never asks when it will be its turn, knowing the waves will belong to it soon enough.

There is a moment just before sunset when the world seems to agree on something. The wind lowers its voice, the day is ending, nothing left to improve.

Just the simple privilege of watching the sun disappear into the only unknown that feels familiar, and promising.

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