facade

I know that Disney is a painted face, a glitter of fake rhinestones and paste, but it imitates a life that people want. It is sunny here and my happy meter has climbed with the periodic absorption of vitamin D in natural light that I can absorb in snatches between seminar topics.
I ran this evening along the Boardwalk in the faded light and had a lone dinner at a bar, reading on my Kindle and feeling as happy as it is possible to be in solitude.

I shopped for Miss L and missed her badly and felt that no one should be at Disney without their little person.
So I had a glass of wine at a quiet tucked away corner of the resort, a pseudo 1940s lounge, and I read again while lounging in a cracked leather wing chair. My heels were loud on the board floors and someone was wearing cologne that reminded me of someone else. I listened to a faux wireless replay old radio programmes; eavesdropping casually and disinterestedly on my fellow drinkers.
Someone said to someone else, ‘of all the gin joints…’ Somebody else said, ‘everyone I want to talk to is right here.’ And it sounded perfectly fitting.

Maybe someday when I am old and my responsibilities are discharged, I will move to Disney and be a bartender or a concierge, and take a part in this happy facade.

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