Palm Tree Traffic Lights

I’m in Hawaii, underneath palm trees sipping on frozen mojitos and daiquiris next to a beautiful beach blonde babe who materialized from a Sports Illustrated poster hanging on the walls of horny 14 year olds. She leans over and whispers in a voice as cool as the ocean breeze that laps before us so powerful and gentle, saying something sexual and giggles because she wants me oh yes, she does. But I play it cool, not yet darling, I’m too in love with Astrud Gilberto’s singing and you wear too much makeup to be my girl from Ipanema. For lunch, I had a poke bowl sourced fresh from this blue to my hammock giving new meaning to farm to table. The tuna writhed before the chef put it to bed in one clean cut, it smiled after the ordeal was over, probably dreaming wet about its desire to get with a manta ray. I’ll spend the rest of my day on this white sand beach and watch the sun descend below the horizon splashing a red hue against the stars yawning sipping their morning coffee. All I must do is work another two hundred and seventy-six days at this damn AmCham New York City Branch Ltd. and all my day dreams will come true.