He left his shoes on, determined to the let sun kiss every inch before he made his final decision. The breeze felt so much like a constant caress he found himself aroused by air. Lost somewhere above the clouds, he’d finally found it: the throne he had searched for his whole life.

Crafted from cold and heartless rock, it shared no bosomy sentiment with the powdered cloud tops below. Nor did it share any novelty of the vacation town, that from this distance looked like a collage of magazine pages ready to be read leisurely seaside.

He was finally living on the edge, sitting in his perch, palms gripping the face of the rock. It would only take the slightest push to send him sailing. A speck of flabby flesh free-falling towards a new life. All of his burdens stripped off. No canvas bag, water bottle or ring. He thought of her curls and took another scooch.

If he wasn’t a proud man, perhaps he would have shouted her name in his final thrust forward. Bemoaned her from his royal height above their favorite honeymoon island location, a bare-bottomed divorcee flash-diving into sky.

The final push was power; he was flailing and free. Of course, he had his parachute cord in hand. A recently crowned king has no plans to come to an untimely end.

Besides, he could always wrap himself in the red and black checkered blocks of fabric, and scamper back into town to have a new adventure. Fully alive; both king and jester of his own life.

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This is a flash inspired by Fandango’s Flash Fiction Challenge #102.