Friday’s Fever:

Friday’s Fever: 

Prob ~ The Choosan Soul.

Luis came to Rio after Linda died.
He thought the ocean would take his grief.
But the ocean does not take.
It returns.
Every Friday…
he went to Sambha beach.
Every Friday…
he sat at the same seaside bar.
Every Friday…
he ordered two glasses.
One for him.
One for Linda.
The first Friday,
it was only memory.
The scent of lime.
The burn of rum.
A laugh that wasn’t there…
but almost was.
Every Friday…
the feeling returned.
Stronger.
Closer.
The locals began to whisper—
o homem das duas taças.
The man of two glasses.
They said:
one is for the living.
the other… is not empty.
Every Friday…
the ocean changed.
The waves whispered her name.
The wind carried her breath.
The sand held two sets of footprints.
But only one man walked.
The second Friday,
he felt her.
The third Friday,
he saw her shadow.
The fourth Friday,
she appeared in the mirror behind him—
not smiling.
Every Friday…
she came closer.
From whisper…
to shadow…
to shape.
Linda was no longer memory.
She was Choosan—
a chosen soul.
Not chosen to stay.
Chosen to take.
Every Friday…
Luis drank.
Every Friday…
she drank with him.
Every Friday…
he grew weaker.
His breath shortened.
His hands trembled.
His heart beat louder than the samba drums.
Then even the drums stopped.
Every Friday…
the world faded.
The lights dimmed.
The music died.
The people disappeared.
Only the ocean remained.
Waiting.
One Friday…
there was no bar.
No music.
No voices.
Only silence.
Luis stood at the shore.
Two glasses in his hands.
Every Friday…
he had brought her drink.
This Friday…
she came to take him.
The wave rose.
Not fast.
Not wild.
But certain.
It touched his feet.
Cold.
Like her hands.
And then—
she was there.
Clear.
Radiant.
Smiling the way she used to…
before death learned her name.
Every Friday…
he had waited for her.
This Friday…
she waited for him.
She took the second glass.
He did not pull away.
He did not speak.
He stepped forward.
The ocean closed.
Soft.
Deep.
Final.
By morning…
there was nothing.
No man.
No footprints.
Only the tide.
But every Friday…
the beach grows still.
The wind forgets to move.
The waves forget to break.
And far beyond the shore…
two figures walk into the sea.
One glowing.
One fading.
And on the water—
two glasses float.
Every Friday…
never sinking…
never empty…
waiting.