Anders popped another fig into his mouth. He immediately reflected upon the suitability of figs to this action, and resolved not to do so again.
Anders sipped the cocktail he’d been provided gratis by the hotel. That was suitably summery, he surmised. It tasted like whiskey, milk and honey, but there was something else to it he couldn’t finger.
The sunset played on the water and cast reddish-hued shadow plays on the thin clouds, and the cool air blowing across the coast carried the smells of old spice and the sea together.
People were usually delivered to the correct location without their baggage. Anders was sent accidentally to Coastal France on his way to Norway; apparently they thought there’d be a connecting flight. Ironically, they’d sent his baggage elsewhere, where it was redirected successfully to Oslo.
A girl in an orange bikini strode past. He glanced like he figured he should do, and sipped sideways again on the cocktail.
There was a formula to paradise that had to be adhered to, after all.