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Dear Heart's voice brought me into the present. For a little while it was like
being home and being gone, too; a favorite feeling of mine. Most of Morocco is on GMT, or Greenwich
Mean Time, the prime meridian, eight or nine hours ahead of home in the Pacific North West part of the U.S.
I was getting up when home was going to bed, almost. It was a fun conversation full of the chatter of love
and shared lives. And it was over too soon.
Remembering the final photo exposure in the panorama sequence I returned to the window ledge.
The camera was gone. It had darkened considerably while I was on the phone, but I poked my head out the window
and looked down. The roof of another portion of the hotel was fifteen or twenty feet below. Directly
beneath my window was a dark blob, with another smaller dark piece off to the side. My camera, the voice inside
me said. And the voice continued. Keep cool. Look for a door downstairs to access that
portion of the roof. Maybe the damage isn't serious, pieces just pop apart sometimes. Stay cool.
The camera was fifteen years old. You were about to transition to digital, here's an opportunity. Don't
beat yourself!
Another voice, possibly the voice of reason, seemed louder. Do you know how much money that represents,
the voice asked. Are you daft, allowing such an incident to happen? Where the hell was your attention? - the
voice almost barked!
Glancing at my watch laying on the small phone desk, saw it was time to meet up with Adil. I dialed
his room and he answered first ring. He seemed agitated. "Let's meet in the lobby in fifteen minutes," I
urged. I lit the orange drink can for another hit of spice-like smoke, then pulled shoes on and flipped on the bathroom
light to check myself in the mirror.
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