The noise grows even louder, turning deafening as the riders reach that particular turn.
They’re still out of sight when I raise my eyes and train them on the highway.
Smoothly, a few riders take the turn, sliding down the road, on their Harley Davidson motorcycles.
They belong in a movie scene.
Maybe because they drive in formation–– I count four of them. No. Five.
The last one just entered my line of sight.
They wear dark helmets and riding gear, boots, dark jeans or leather pants, and biker jackets.
They go straight past us, not looking in our direction, parading on their bikes as if they own the road.
And for a moment, they do.
As they slide past us, I lift my camera to take a few pictures of their backs.
I zoom in on one of them because the patches on his leather jacket catch my eye along with his muscular legs spread across his ride and his broad shoulders.
“They look good,” Frankie says, voicing my thought.
“Yeah... They’re interesting,” I mutter, my eyes pinned on the shoulders of that biker for a while.
“They look dangerous too,” Frankie adds, joking.
A smile grows on my lips.
“I’m sure they’re dangerous,” I say in the same, lighter tone. “But they’re someone else’s problem, not ours,” I add, grinning and pivoting back to our car.
“Let’s find a place on the beach before the sun hides behind the clouds,” I say, pointing to the huge gray clouds looking like cotton candy far above the water.
We drive for another half an hour before finding a spot to our liking. We park the car and take the trail down to the stretch of sand.
“I like the smell of algae,” she says, sinking her bare feet into the sand.
We find a nice spot close to the water, away from the people strolling by.
We shed our clothes and start eating on our beach towels, clad in our swimming suits.
“You know we could’ve done this back home,” I say, chewing.
She shakes her head.
“It’s not the same. It tastes different here.”
I breathe out a chuckle.
“I bet it does.”
We eat in silence for a few moments when two men and a woman follow the trail down to the beach and set their things a few feet away from us.
I’m not paying attention to them until they set up their kiteboarding gear and start sliding their kite surfboards across the water, the colorful kites gliding across the sky.
“Hmm... Look,” I say, my mouth full, gesturing in their direction.
She shifts her gaze to them too, chewing.
“There’s a woman with them,” I mutter before taking the last bite. “One day, that will be me,” I joke, amused, the woman displaying skills I completely lack.
Frankie watches them in silence before swinging her eyes back to me. We both finish eating our sandwiches and picking up the crumbs from the beach towels.
I grab my apple juice while she drinks water.
“You want to do so many things,” she mutters, both lying on our backs, propped on our elbows and looking in the distance.
“Don’t you?” I ask, sunk in thought.
“Yeah. I guess I am.”
She pauses for a second.
“I see you kitesurfing and doing sports. It’s just that...”
The moment of silence draws my eyes to her.
Her gaze meets mine.
“It’s just that some of the things you want are at odds with who you are... How I see you.”
What she says piques my interest.
“How do you see me?”
She smiles, softly shrugging in response.
“Law is going to be a tough career for you, but I see you doing it. I don’t know for how long, though,” she adds, flashing a faint smile.
“Why?”
“I don’t know... It will change you.”
“Being a teacher will change you too.”
“Maybe.”
Her grin dissolves in a melancholic gaze.
“I see you doing exciting stuff like Olivia. Traveling, immersing yourself in different cultures, having a lover on each continent.”
Her humor makes me smile.
“You really believe that about me?”
“Yes.”
I give her a thoughtful stare.
“Nah. You’re projecting on me. You want to do all that,” I say, laughing and shaking my head.
The circular elastic band wrapped in velvety fabric falls from the top of my head, freeing my hair.
The wind blows my scrunchie away from me before I stretch, catch it and slide it onto my wrist.
I gather my hair and toss it over my shoulder with one gesture, holding the weak hope that it won’t end up all over my face.
“I’m not saying that it didn’t cross my mind, but it’s not me,” she says. “I see myself teaching kids, taking pleasure in interacting with them, and spending time in the classroom. I always wanted to do that.”
Impatiently, I shake my head.
“It’s not me, either.”
“What?”
She seems distracted for a moment as her gaze slides over my shoulder, her eyes moving to the water.
One of the surfers, a tall, athletic man, flexes his chiseled arms to control his red and yellow kite, the wind lifting him to the top of a wave before he rides that crest until he slides onto the back of it with poise and grace.
I turn my eyes back to Frankie.
“It’s not me either,” I repeat.
Her focus sharpens on me.
“You might be right, but that’s how I see you. There is much more to your world than working in a corporate environment.”
“That’s only one option.”
She flicks her hand impatiently, the conversation slipping.
“That’s not what I argue,” she says. “Besides, it’s just my gut feeling when it comes to you. That’s what I see when I look at you. Living in Florence for a year, documenting your stay. Blogging. Podcasting. Recording videos.”
“Florence, as in Italy?” I blurt.
“Yes. Why not? I’ve heard that the sunsets look great on the rooftops, and Italian men are hot-blooded and good lovers.”
I flick my hand in disagreement.
“They’re all hot-blooded when they’re horny.”
She laughs.
“You know it’s not true.”
“Yeah, maybe. Whatever...”
We go silent for a moment, looking at the kitesurfer that seems to be surfing closer. His friend ventures far away while the woman seems to be getting closer too, but my eyes hover over him.
His dirty blonde hair is cropped short, his face escaping my gaze as he looks away.
“I’ll be doing exciting stuff, but can’t travel the world like Olivia. She’s had an extraordinary career, and she’s retired. It makes sense to take it easy and enjoy herself.”
“I also see you playing the violin...” she stubbornly continues. “If not in Florence, maybe in Rome. I envision a mysterious man in the audience. He can’t take his eyes away from you as you play for him, completely removed from your surroundings. And he forgets how to breathe, aware that your heart beats for him... His eyes melt your insides, yet you keep your head down, your chin tucked in the chin rest, your mind focused on your music as your bow slides across the strings. You play your heart out, telling him what the words refuse to say... He will never let you leave him.”