When not swimming in the sea, Carlito is a tailor. Up and down with the point of his toes and the tap of his heels, a bobbin unwinds precious threads and a golden needle flutters rapidly, punching the finest of cotton fiber through tender fabric. With eyes closed, Carlito rocks in rhythm. His hands know where to go.
Days are unnumbered. No end. Existence is like a thread without an end.
Nighttime and evening are phases in one’s imagination. Whistles never blow, signaling the end of treacherous hours of slavery. Sleep never comes, for life is like a dream. There are no clocks. Hours are unnumbered. No sun in the sky. Stars linger atop a maroon horizon and reflect upon a yellow ocean that is almost always tranquil. Sailboat rides on rafts crafted from hands are a way to pass what is not time. Riders glide along, alone and together in the peace of what is tranquility.
Plush fistfuls of wool are carefully enmeshed between Carlito’s tender fingers, creating yarn from which he weaves his cloths. Colored with wild, purple berries, his fabrics are priceless. He glances through a clear glass panel shaped like a diamond, admiring the ocean in the distance. Men and women hold hands and sing at the sea. From the waves he chooses patterns and sews the finest of apparel based on the tides.
Carlito stops his foot from moving and reaches out to stroke the soft face of his ewe. He has named the sheep Cassie. She is one of several dozen that graze freely in the emerald green hills behind the shop. The animals come in and out of Carlito’s home at their leisure, often simply looking for affection. He mends what came from them and the animals seem to understand. His tender hands are like that of a child. His teeth sparkle like the ivory and jasper cobblestones of the street just outside.
Wrinkles are gone from once aged hands and color has returned to Carlito’s thick, brown hair.
Another garment is complete. Time to rest. Off to the shore he will go again. In the distance, along the shore, friends wear Carlito’s robes, even while sailing in boats. They are dressed as if ready for bed, floating along. Carlito snips away the last of dangling threads from the robe he has made and places another masterpiece on a wooden hanger. He hangs it outside near his garden and walks away.
Off to the sea, he will go for a while to watch the waves and wave to friends in the distance on boats. He wishes for a breeze. One caresses his youthful face. Carlito drops his robe on smooth turquoise pebbles along the water’s edge. Nakedly he dives into the warm water.
Marco’s head surfaces. They ride bubbly pink surf on their bellies. Marco lands atop Carltio on the violet sand. They kiss. Under they go. Breathing comfortably as they swim, the water smells fresh, like Spring air…