This story idea was inspired by the visuals from Edvard Munch’s painting “Dance on the Beach” (1904)

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The persistent sound of prickly Cuban songs from 1950 Chevrolets left a tedious hum in her ears. The days were sprinkled in rain, Cubaton played in every business,and with each breeze from the Gulf came a heavy smell of dust and gasoline. Karla walked the stone paths with a butterfly-fluttering feeling of contrary. She hoped with each distraught step she produced enough heat from kinetic energy to warm her soaked socks, but it never happened.

A rugged man with round cheeks stopped playing his trumpet to puff a cigar he pulled from his shirt pocket. He tipped his white hat and a cat call rolled off his thick tobacco tongue as Karla passed. She modestly looked down, dug her nails into her drenched yellow dress, and continued down the path suffocated by colorful buildings. 

She followed the hum and vibration of rumba and bolero tunes, winding until the stone path met sand, open space replaced the buildings, and the moon ate the clouds. Down the shoreline, she saw couples dancing underneath the glimmers of the night sky.

As Karla untied her sopping strawberry hair from a tight bun, a woman the same age as her floated from the small dancing group and made her way to Karla’s side.

“Cristal?” the woman asked as she held out the cheap beer. 

She was in a white dress that fell to her ankles with bright blonde hair. Her skin was much paler than the sunburnt tourists and natives inhabiting the island. Instead, she was just like porcelain. 

“No thank you,” Karla said as she kicked her shoes off into the sand. “I’ve just come to sit on the beach and waste some time.”

The Woman nodded, “Time. She is an atrocious thing.”

Karla slowly wiggled her wet socks off her cold feet and placed them next to her shoes. She sat down, allowing her dress to consume the sand and let the offspring of the seabed make a home on the fabric. The Woman in the White Dress sat down next to her, her gaze locked on the dancers just feet from the sea.

“Time is lavish,” the Woman said. “You can slow down, speed up, hurry, skulk, and yet be in pace with Her.”

Karla bobbed her head with the music, intoxicated with the sight of the watercolor night sky. She placed her hands into the cotton candy sand and felt it tickle off her skin as she pulled her hands out to breathe.

“She is perpetually at your side,” the Woman continued. “Every season. Every destination. Any pace.”

Karla’s fixation then dawned on the dancers who were nose to nose in silence, in synch with the music’s rhythm. One woman’s red dress wrapped around her partner’s leg. The two melted together; the red dress now a dripping stain on his black suite. The contour of a different woman’s shape ran into her partners, sewing the two together, unable to untangle with each step in their dance. The women’s hair waved with the sea’s breeze in slow motion, allowing each highlight of their hair to bounce in tempo.

“Cristal?” the Woman asked again.

Karla took the bottle from the Woman and slowly sipped. It was full of amber, better than the ones she’s had before. As she drank, she continued to watch the dancers sway under the moonbeams. The Woman sat with her, drinking a beer with naked feet too.

“Time is fun to play with,” the Woman said. “You can see how to shake it, where it sticks, use it, or save it.”

The music seemed to get louder or perhaps the hum in Karla’s ear worsened. Karla, slack-jawed and all, realized maybe she is now closer to the dancers than she was before.

“Time,” the Woman giggled. “Artful architect She is.”

 The sea’s breeze grew, whisking past the two women and crashing into kaleidoscope trees. The wind shook the branches, making the leaves leisurely depart. The leaves twirled into the night sky, spinning and spinning until they transformed into music notes. The whole notes were pink and the sixteenths purple.

“She too has her season,” the Woman said. “Her peak ripeness.”

The Woman in the White Dress stood up, hovering over Karla with one hand out. Karla nodded and locked hands with her. The Woman’s hands felt like plasticine clay, as if it were molding Karla’s into hers.

Hypnotized by the music, the two continuously spun in circles. Just as Karla began to feel completely spellbound, she saw a figure in a black cloak in the crowd of dancers. The cloak was wrapped around its body, veiling the figure’s face beneath a deep hood. 

“Do respect Time,” the Woman said as they spun. “And know that now is not the time.”