The plan

Zack had it all worked out.

Down to the last Euro.

A modest townhouse

on a sunny coast,

with bougainvillea

fountaining up the walls

and the scent of herbs

drifting through

the open windows

on balmy nights.

A Vespa with a basket

that he'd ride down to the beach

or to the market where he'd inspect

with a practiced eye,

the fresh caught mackerel

or aubergines,

nudge some loaves

still warm from the oven.

Perhaps a cappuccino

and a malasada lightly dusted

with golden grains of sugar

to sweeten the morning while

he spent an hour or two

perusing sports and politics

on the latest iteration

high resolution iPad.

Undoubtably he'd meet

some sweet raven haired

potter or masseuse.

And they would share

the same taste in cinema,

much laughter, and

a lively time in bed.

She would teach him

the local lingua

and ride behind him

on the Vespa and

it wouldn't matter

that her raven hair

streaming out behind them

in the ocean breeze was dyed.

He could see it all so clearly.

Things didn't work out that way.

He bought a condo in San Ysidro

with a rosemary bush outside

his window, but at least he

got the Vespa and met

a woman with black dyed hair.

Stella wasn't a potter, she sold

plates and glasses at Pottery Barn

and she knew all the best places

on his body to knead and rub.

It was a short trip to Tijuana

on the weekends for cappuccinos

and pasteles at a favorite cafe

where they could talk about

the latest movies, laugh or groan

about the news. If they were feeling frisky,

they could spend the afternoon

playing in a by the hour hotel bed.

On Sunday evening, as the sun

sank in the Pacific,

they climbed back on the scooter,

split the lanes at the border

and were back home

at Seaview condos before dark.