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Ka Maluhia


Steel drums chimed in the twilight. Palm fronds above the cantina swayed in the breeze. A big Polynesian man with tribal tattoos covering his arms that bulged from his kahuna shirt moved back and forth filling, shaking, and pouring metal cups. An old white-haired woman in a purple and white muumuu served the drinks to the patrons at the tables. Another woman, younger with long black frizzy hair adorned with a white flower, appeared from the kitchen behind the cantina delivering plates of katsu and teriyaki pork.

Tyrone, sitting at the end of the bar, leaned back against a wooden post. Not long left in his vacation, he savored every sight, smell, sound of the island trying to forget the busy world swirling outside. His mundane job at the firm, with a boss that policed his every move awaited him. He folded his arms, slumping into the bar, burying his head into the pits of his elbows letting the breeze from above wash over him.

“Ka Maluhia,” a voice came from behind.

He lifted his head just a little to see the young woman slide a plate of salad and pulled pork to him.

“What’s that mean?” he groaned.

“Peace,” she smiled.

“I just don’t want my vacation to end.”

“Vacation?” she mumbled as she walked away.

Tyrone sipped at his fruity drink with the umbrella. With closed eyes, he shoveled the pork into his mouth followed by the cabbage and pieces of Ramen that made up his salad. As he ate, he let the music and the breeze wash over him for the last few minutes of his vacation. He pushed his plate across the bar to the bartender.

He looked around one last time taking in a deep breath. He puffed his cheeks releasing a slow exhale savoring the Island.

Walking toward the door he prepared to re-enter the grind. The vent above him, with the sea breeze air freshener, released one final blow before he pushed the door open.

A loud blaring horn from a yellow taxi glinting in the noon sun greeted him. Two construction workers yelling in Spanish made him twitch. A group of men wearing suits pushed past him into the Hawaii themed bar and grill. Tyrone looked left and then right. With a brief pause in the city traffic, he plunged across the street to his firm.

This story was written by Tyson Abaroa. Instead of editing his book like he should, Tyson escapes from reality from time to time with some flash fiction and quick posts on his blog tysonabaroa.com.
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