As dusk shimmered across the blue of the Marmara Sea, the gilded lights of the yacht pierced the dusk. The moment I boarded, the salty sea breeze, mingled with the sweetness of champagne bubbles, swirled with the delicate fragrance of white grapes vines on the deck. The bunches of white grapes hanging beside the ice bucket, their skins coated in tiny ice crystals, looked as if they'd been plucked from the stars. The yacht was more spacious than I'd imagined. The teakwood deck shone with a warm glow. Behind the bar, rows of bottles lined the deck, amber whiskey rippled in the light. Waiters shuttled around carrying silver platters bearing grilled lobster tails garnished with lemon slices. The aroma of duck confit filled the cabin. I found a seat by the window and bit into a white grape. The moment the sweet and sour juice exploded on my tongue, the sound of a violin filled the air. In the corner, the violinist played ”Ode to Love,” the gentle rubbing of the bowstrings perfectly harmonizing with the rhythm of the waves crashing against the boat. The couple at the next table clinked their glasses, the crisp clink of crystal glasses mingling with the sound of piano as they fell into the water. Suddenly, a drumbeat exploded, and a woman in a crimson dance dress spun to the center, her hips swaying violently to the beat of the darbuka. Her skirt swung out in fiery arcs amid the tinkling of silver jewelry. Those who had just been engrossed in the violins were now clapping and cheering. Even the waiter couldn't help but sway his shoulders. The frenzy of the belly dancing hadn't faded yet when the waiter brought dessert. When the chocolate lava cake was cut, the liquid core felt like the thick darkness. Swallowing it with the refreshing taste of white grapes felt like swallowing the entire summer night. Looking out the window, the lights on both banks had already merged into a flowing river. I couldn't tell whether they were the minarets of Istanbul or the villages on the Asian coast. I only remembered countless lights immersed in the water, shattered into golden fragments by the rippling waves. As the boat passed, its wake shattered a sea of starlight, then slowly smoothed out by the following waves. I can't recall how much I drank afterward. I only remember that as I left, the violinist switched to a more lively tune, the belly dancer's laughter mingling with the sea breeze. I still clutched half a bunch of white grapes, the cool skins pressed against my palm. Looking back, the lights of the yacht shrank to a single dot behind me, like stars lost in the sea, while the lights on both banks continued to flicker, as if someone had strung the violin, drums, and laughter together into a string of lights, hanging them across the horizon. It turns out that some nights don't need to be remembered. Just like the waves of the Sea of Marmara, they only serve to transform all the beauty into a hazy halo, leaving it for later, when I recall it, the sweetness of the white grapes still lingering on my tongue, the unfinished piano music still lingering in my ears.
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