Day 88 Sa Genti Arrubia

In the bathroom mirror I see the ghost of my bikini, barely there, slighter brighter white than the rest of me, which has turned pale almond or nociola, hazelnut, as my father in law always says kindly.

I kept my promsie to myself and didn't turn red. I am a flamingo at the beginning of the feeding season, not yet flushed fuscia.

But then I come back home, forget my holiday caution and burn both my shoulders in the surprising English sun. I am a flamingo after all, crimson-wing tipped, one of the genti arrubia, gente rossa, red people, as these ancient creatures were once called in Cagliari.