The Sun She, the Moon He

Can't have it all, March told herself as she looked out of the window.  Can't have it all.  The travel brochure had promised an ocean view for thirty bucks extra.  Thirty per person, not together.  Extras cost extra, March was fine with this basic economic concept.  The thing she wasn't fine with was the view they got for this extra money.  Ninety bucks should make for a better ocean view.  A real ocean view.  Especially in a hotel that has Miramar written in proud white letters all over the entrance.
      She felt like complaining to someone.  Like calling reception.  "Please sir, I have a problem here.  Would it possible for someone to come up to room 315?  No sir, I am sorry, I can't explain the problem on the phone.  You have to see it to understand it.  And while we are at it, could you please bring a camera with you.  And show me how it is possible to take those pictures that make rooms look so much bigger, and ocean views so much more like ocean views.  Yes, I will be here, waiting for the manager.  Thank you.  Yes, this was room 315."
      She already knew the answer: Ah, perdone, senora, but look, there is the ocean, there, between those two roofs.  Comprende senora, yes, I understand, but senora, see, no one promised an all ocean view.  It just said ocean view, and that is what you have.
      And true it was.  La mare, a piece of blue, there it was.  The problem was that March needed the real blue.  The real deep wide blue, a blue that was filling the whole horizon with its water.  Not just a piece of it.  Not just something close to it.  Not another substitute of the real thing.
      With a sigh, she rested her head against the cool glass.  Looked out of the window, down to the palm trees that were lining the ocean drive, to the swimming pool that was still sleeping, the water surface a reflection of the sky above, clouds moving in water, tainting it in sunrise colours, orange, yellow and pink.
      Like a water colour painting, March thought, like a water colour painting that leaves no traces, that appears and vanishes again, soft like a dream.  For some seconds she considered to change, to leave the scene for a moment, to slip into her bathing suit, head to the pool and slide into the water, to become a part of it, to feel the sun on her face, the water on her skin.  But she didn't want to disturb the picture, didn't want to disturb the quiet of the morning.  And she didn't want to miss the moment the sun came up, she couldn't be far.  The sun.  El sol.  Strange how in Spain the sun was male, and the moon female.  La luna.  For her it was the other way round, always had been.  The sun she, the moon he.  The ocean neutral, just like the sky.
      Lost in the water reflections, she started to hum, then to sing, a song she had sung while another sun had been rising, a long time ago, singing the sun into the day, into another day, and there she rose, at the end of the horizon, just at the right place, at the one place March could see her, between the two roofs.
      She felt the need to capture the sky, even moved away from the window for a moment, getting her camera to take a picture, already knowing that it wouldn't work.  She took the picture anyway, one of those that were just for herself, a memory of something you have to see to understand.  
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