LXIV. Postcards from parra-dise ( pt. 1)

 The Little Martian finds himself in Parra. He has been sent on a forced vacation. The little intergalactic hustler has taken on one project too many the last few weeks. He has been extracted, for survival purposes.

“You need a weekend in Goa.”

“Go where?”

“It’s just Goa.”

“So we’re not actually going anywhere?”

“You’re already here, buddy.”

The Little Martian is having trouble unwinding in this tropical monsoon paradise as it shudders with the staccato beat of an off-season beach retreat.We trawl cafes and boutiques with closed shutters and settle on a charming Portuguese villa-store-thingamajig painted with pale pink trellises, shrouded in glistening ivy.

I order a millet cake and an Americano for myself, and a triple bubblegum sundae for the Martian, as a soft drizzle splatters from the Goan clouds and glitters on the pink awning.

“So now what? We just sit and stare out in the distance while the monsoon envelops us?”

“Yes.”

We watch the rain as it sparkles and shudders, growing torrential and then easing just as quickly, like a mood swing, caught mid-swing.

“Moody,” I murmur, but the Little Martian catches me.

“Moody?”

“The weather. It’s up then down, it’s all over the place.”

“You humans are moody as hell. It’s what makes you less annoying than those Neptunian robot freaks. It’s not a bad thing, trust me.”

“Nothing good about it either. It confuses people, makes them all awkward and distant.”

“Keeps things interesting, no?”

I shrug.

“You a little drama queen or what?”

“I’m a goddamn Little Martian,” he replies, taking a angry bite of his bubblegum sundae.

Are we grownups already?