Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
My new life is great. Awesome. But it’s so hard to reconcile where I came from and where I am now. It’s like I’m living in a science fiction movie. Air conditioning. I mean, I knew it existed. There were a couple arenas where I fought where they had AC—especially that last one. It was nice.
But to just live in it? To just be comfortable and cool? To have cold fruit in your fridge? And phones. God, the phones here. Of course, lot of people have phones in Brazil, but I had never had a phone before I got to America.
Maart and Cort and the older fighters all had those fancy phones. But I didn’t even dream about something like that and now I not only have one, but last year I even upgraded to the latest model.
When I want to leave South Beach, I press a picture on my phone and a car appears.
When I am hungry and don’t feel like getting out of bed, I press another picture on my phone and food appears.
I don’t even have to wash my own dishes. Or clothes! Because I have a stackable washer and dryer.
My brain hurts when I think about this stuff.
It’s my day off today, so I’m going to the beach. My tan was complete and perfect about eighteen months ago, so I’m not going to bathe in the sun. I like to feed the birds and swim. I put on a long-sleeved turquoise and floral one-piece with a chunky zipper down the front. Low-waisted cut-offs and white flip-flops complete the look.
I grab my straw beach bag as I walk through the door and then skip down the three steps that lead to the courtyard outside my condo. I love this courtyard. There’s an iron fence painted turquoise blue that surrounds our little complex and palm trees swaying in the wind are dotted throughout.
It makes me smile every time I come out the door, which is the same color as the fence and gate.
The beach is eight blocks east of here. If I follow Sixth Street past Washington it spills me out right on the sand where the restrooms are. I always walk south until I get to the South Pointe Pier, and then I feed the birds. My beach bag always has stale bread in it from Eats—everyone there knows I love to feed the birds. They’re just gulls mostly—I’ve never seen an albatross here—but the sound of them, it’s so great I can’t even explain it.
People always give me dirty looks when I do this. They complain about the swarm that descends down on me. They bitch and moan. Sometimes they even tell me to stop. But I won’t stop. And they give up and walk away.
There is a breaker wall that runs parallel to the pier, and when I’m done with the birds I always walk on the rocks to the very end. I don’t like to walk on the pier because there are too many people. Hardly anyone wants to hop along the uneven boulders that make up the breaker. So when I get to the very end I’m usually alone.
I sit out there and just look out to the sea. My sea.
I come for the view too, but I’m really here for the swim. For the float. I swim out a little way, lie back on the water, floating on top of the waves, and then I close my eyes and go home. I drift into that other world where Irina is still Russian and America doesn’t even exist yet. I think about the Rock and that faraway life where death ruled every moment of my day.
I let out long, deep breaths, and smile as the sun colors the inside of my eyelids yellow.
Suddenly there is splashing nearby and a moment later, someone is grabbing me.
I swing—it’s just instinct—and hit a guy in the face. He lets go, swimming back, yelling at me. “Are you OK? I thought you were dead! Everyone thought you were dead!”
He points to the pier where a couple dozen people are shielding their eyes from the sun and staring at me. I’ve drifted, so they’re not that close, actually.
I look at the guy. He’s mid-twenties, maybe. Fit and muscular. Shaved head, brown eyes, and brown skin. He’s just staring at me. “Well?” he finally says.
“Sorry.” I look back at the people. “I was just minding my own business, floating in the sea. It’s not a big deal.”
“We thought you were dead.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“Do you need help?”
“Why would I need help?” This conversation feels ridiculous. I’ve floated here off the edge of the rocks many times and no one has ever swum out to me, accosted me, and accused me of being dead.
“Because you’re just… you looked like…” He shakes his head.