Rubbing my eyes, I wake up to the smell of coffee and the crackle of the record player. The sweet African beats of Sunny Ade come to life and I’m up. Maz is ready to play.
The front door of the bungalow is flung open and breakfast cocktails are served on the porch. The bicycles are readied for beach and boardwalk adventures, surfboards attached.
Summer has called. Maz has arrived.
We follow her footprints in the snow. She doesn’t own rubber boots. I can imagine that her feet are very wet and cold now. She ran from the car hollering and whooping. Then we lost her in the trees as she headed towards the river.
After discovering an angel in the snow, I know that the rest of her is wet also.
We follow the prints a little further until I am hard hit in the back of my head. With the sound of her haughty laughter coming from behind me, I spin around to find Maz rolling about in two feet of snow.
I can play this game. It’s on.
She looks up at me as a tear escapes from her eye. Mascara runs down her cheek. Rare is the moment when Maz lets her guard down. Like a true Cancerian, no one would ever perceive just how sensitive a soul she really is.
Just like everyone else, she is susceptible to heartache and sadness. However, fearless, fiery, sassy and a touch brash is how most would describe her.
It’s a special thing to be allowed into her softer realm. For all her forte, love and charisma, there is an intense vulnerability that compliments that. Her shell is hard.
No one gets to see that side of her, but I think it’s just as beautiful.
It’s legal for a woman to be topless in the state of New York. Truly….
Maz will take full advantage of this law to evade unsightly tan lines. Or may it be that she will take any opportunity to free herself from the constrictions of clothing. Either way, some may claim ‘exhibitionist’ or ‘conservative antagonist’. She is neither.
The liberty that Maz displays is entirely unaware. I love that about her.
‘What will people think?!’ is not even a momentary thought.
Soaking in the sun’s energy and sifting golden sand through her fingers, she is lost in meditation. Maz arouses a rejuvenated Summer spirit. A goddess of independent beauty and strength.
Cycling through Chinatown at high noon. Searching for that hidden dumpling house on the top floor, above a Chinese barber shop. It’s in an alleyway off an alleyway.
I had been there before, however the maze of winding, narrow streets and the haze of meaty aromas clouds my sense of memory and direction.
My basket holds two bottles of chilled Sauvignon Blanc and an SX-70 camera. It seems I have been cycling in circles for ever in that 100 degree heat.
Where are you Maz? I know I will find you when I find that tiny cafe with the best Xiaolongbao in the city.
Brunch with Maz would always be a gorgeous affair. Champagne and Bloody Marys, toasted baguettes with ricotta and chilli honey, perfectly poached eggs on a bed of spinach, all on a divinely set table.
Five of us would lounge for hours in her picturesque backyard moving from brunch to lunch to supper through fits of laughter and animated story telling. Captivating tales of crazy love letters, troubles with Mexican police and night fishing in Fiji were told as we devoured stuffed olives and felt the warm Summer sun lower over our shoulders.
These are the best days Maz. It’s Summer now. Oh where are you?