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The Atomic Bomb like a Grecian Sunset

The wind played softly with Yousef’s hair. Leaning back against the ancient lamppost, he lit a cigarette and exhaled the smoke slow and thoroughly. With the same effortless efficiency, he surveyed the immediate area. The cobblestone avenida before him streched empty both ways, and he half expected a tumbleweed to come rolling past the curve like in the old Spaghetti Westerns. Across was the rocky beach where touristas would stroll during the season. Sometimes stopping to admire a shell, or buying a frozen treat from the vendadores for a few pesos. Now, much like the street, it was empty excluding a few listless gulls circling something near the shoreline. Normally, this time of year the heat was too much, and Yousef would spend the days inside various cafes clinging for dear life to a cold sweating glass. An indiscernible futbol game on the kitchen radio came spilling out into the heat. It was so hot that the sound melted before it could reach your ear, and it came through warlbly and meek, like an underwater call on an old crank telephone. Today, however, had been overcast and gloomy. The front cleared out in the late afternoon leaving a brief few hours of comfort to wither on the vine.
Yousef peered at the sinking sun across the sea. One day a ruddy-faced moutaineer had come into one of his cafes fresh from a trip to the Alps. Between various glasses of Águila, the subject of the green flash had come up. This was a brief phenomenon one could see on the horizon at the very moment that the sun slips away. Yousef had always suspected that it was a myth; he had never once seen it. But, he gazed for it now in the golden half-light.

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