I moved closer.
She saw me. I knew she could see me from the terrace; I was not concealed, I was not attempting concealment. The locals knew. The resort tourists assumed it was a costume or a performance piece and moved on. I had long since stopped managing what the tourists did with the information.
I took the wave.
It was a good wave — I knew every wave in this cove, had known them since before this island existed, and I let this one carry me in a way I did not usually bother with for an empty beach. My tentacles trailed out in the foam, luminous briefly in the last of the light. I did not pull them in.
I knew she was watching. I dove and waited for her to leave for the night.
The dock was warm under my hands when I pulled myself up. Late. The terrace was empty. The corner room was lit softly behind its shutters.
Two of my tentacles rested on the dock planks.
Tina came out with coffee. I had not once in forty years managed to sit on this dock without her appearing within ten minutes.
The coffee was too sweet. It was always too sweet, but I drank it.
We sat without talking. This was one of Tina's finest qualities, the willingness to simply be present without filling the space with sound. She had many fine qualities. This was the one I relied on most.
"One guest," I said, eventually.
"A good guest," Tina said, which meant something different, and she said it with the tone of someone filing a piece of information she expected to refer back to. She looked out at the water. Then she said, with a wink: "She’ll be here for a week. Corner room."
I looked at the lit window.
Eventually the light went out.
Humans came to this island and they left. This had been true since humans started coming, which was not very long at all by my measure. They came on the ferry and they left on the ferry and the water forgot them.
I sat with my tentacles trailing in the dark water until the tide turned. It took longer than it should have and when it went it went in inches, pulling back across the black sand with a patience even I could recognize.
One week, I thought. Not very long, by any measure I had.
I was becoming uncertain what I was measuring by.
Marisol
Things looked better this morning.
I woke to actual birds singing their fully unrehearsed opinions at six in the morning outside my window. The ceiling fan turned its slow circles. The cotton coverlet was exactly as soft as it had been when I fell into it eight hours ago. And through the window aimed at the cove, the water was a color of blue that looked like someone had turned the saturation up on the entire ocean just for today.
I lay there for one full minute and just let it be nice.
Then I remembered the ferry fiasco and got up.
Tina had coffee on the terrace and fruit and a dense sweet bread that tasted like coconut and honey and the specific warmth of food made by someone who had been cooking for a long time and knew what they were doing. I ate all of it. The sun came over the jungle at the top of the cliff. The birds settled.
I had my second cup in peace, watching the water, thinking that maybe this week wasn't going to kill me after all — andthen Tina came to collect my plate and mentioned, completely casually, that “Maro will probably be around today.”
"Who's Maro?" I asked.
She gave me a look that contained an entire explanation she had decided I would work out myself. "You'll see," she said, and went back inside.
Sure. Fine. Mysterious island person. Everything was fine.
***
I found the path to the beach without needing to ask, which I counted as a win. The black sand started at the bottom of the path where the vines grew low and tangled against the cliff face, and the view opened up wide.
