𝐯𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 (hs)

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧

Crickets and Cicadas chirped through the fanned tree leaves that drooped above, the humid night air sticking against my skin like a sticker. The soft hum of a song murmured somewhere from the window of a nearby dwelling, ridding the night of empty silence. I inwardly questioned myself on why someone would be awake so late at this hour, but I really didn't have the alibi to query as I'm the one who was out late, wandering down the street alone. 

The dim night was soon overtaken by the illumination of lit signs and lights coming forth from the alive buildings that aligned the drive, the tune of live music and palaver vacating my ears of placidness as I approached Duval Street. I soon blended with the light crowd that littered the sidewalks, blithe adults smiling and casually dancing to music and persisting conversation over drinks, taking in their earned holiday. I kept to myself as I strolled down the street surverying the behavior and aura of the community around me, not being able to conceal the little smile that snuck upon my face. I absolutely adored this island; everyone always radiated positivity and the love that overbore the atmosphere never seemed to vanish. All worries and negativity will always flee for as long as the ocean waves crash against the island's shore. 

I kept walking until I approached the end where the road split off into two, Mallory Square located just ahead, a waterfront square where crowds form just to watch the sun set every evening beyond the ocean line. The once teemed and boisterous plaza turns deserted and empty after moonrise, the unoccupied, cleared space almost mimicking heaven in my eyes. There was something special about being the only individual at Mallory Square when it's desolate: the free space dim, far lights from the end of Duval and the moon being the only source of brightness, only the presence of endless breeze and the view of the black ocean, the soft waves pattering against the edge of the concrete that dropped into the emptiness, the glimmer of twinkling lights of boats coasting far off abiding your senses. 

Being by the sea at night was almost enlightening. I suppose perceiving yourself as something so minuscule in comparison to something so substantial as the ocean forces you to really reflect on life, not just personally, but as a whole. 

My disappearance into my thoughts blinded myself of reality, I now just realizing I had made great way following the edge of the ocean, now present near the docks. Boats softly rocked against the current, the hollow sound of the tides splashing against the boat's hulls permeating my eardrums. I halted in my tracks as I spotted Harry's car off in the distance at the edge of the road, parked and dormant. Craning my neck, my eyes wander my surroundings in anticipation of settling on Harry's tall stature, but to my dismay, nothing. I continue forward quietly, turning the corner of the docks, and suddenly stalling in my tracks as I detected a group of men surrounding the stern of a particularly large boat. I continue forward in caution, gliding my body close against the wall of the nearby building to try and stay out of sight. My movements cease at the sound of a familiar voice,

"What's the size of the shipment?" Malik asked in alto, an unlit cigar in hand. I tried to peer around the barrier in front of me to try to see more of the scene.

The sight of Harry stepping into view warmed my body with the feeling of security, my heart rate increasing at the slightest all thanks to the mere appearance of him. He stood tall with confidence, his face beholding an austere expression, tight jaw and sealed lips, hands tucked away in the pockets of his trousers, fray curls around the edge of his face fluttering in the wind as his eyes pierced ahead at the boat, scrutinizing a group of men loading crates into the back of the boat. 

"40 kilos." Harry rasped lowly. I could barely hear his voice from afar.

"Good." Malik nodded in response, a deadpan look on his face. The few occasions I have seen Malik, he never bestowed any sort of expression on his face, and I suppose that's what made me so frightened by him. I took this opportunity to inspect the man and really get a good glimpse of his features, since he was standing towards my direction. His jet black hair that swept away from his visage with gel made him appear affluent and powerful, a single strand dangled limp and outlined his chiseled face. Dark, straight eyebrows and the scruff of a beard and mustache detailed the dark olive complexion of his face. The man was extremely handsome, I cannot lie. I adored the fact that they were British, as well. I wonder why they came to America. Was it for business?