Titus’s face. From behind her sunglasses she watches him swipe at his eyes foolishly, those thick knuckles surely only further grinding in the sand.
But girls are capricious. Only two hours later, in a complete twist of moods, Nix sits at the tavern thinking,
This is what life is all about.
Yes: the beautiful and the terrible intermingled. This thatched awning, whistling in the wind over this tiny restaurant—a heavy storm would pound it down to nothing, scatter its sticks to the sea. The rickety wooden legs of the chair sway under her slight weight, while below the looming cliffs lie rocks like so many sharp teeth that could tear a body apart. And wine. Three bottles of crisp white, nothing like the syrupy red of the night before, a slightly acidic cold bite that chases away the heat of midday with each sip. Ah. Yes. All days should be like this.
They have eaten a fresh fish they selected from a tank while it still lived. A thrill of murder swims in them. The fish was served still wearing its head, delicious, in a puddle of oil, like nearly everything Nix and Mary have eaten here in Greece. They dipped fresh bread into the oil once the fish was gone. Nix is wearing her top now (Mary, so impatient to get naked altogether, forgot to bring one), and it billows, a thin yellow cotton, in the wind. Titus’s head is where it belongs, atop his shoulders, atop his torso, with his ass resting in his own chair.
Hallelujah,
Nix thinks. “Pass the wine,” she says. Obligingly, Titus tries, but the bottle is empty.
It seems Mary and Zorg are bickering, though Nix is gazing at the horizon and not really paying attention. Zorg’s English is pretty good, and since Titus’s is so inferior, the burden of conversation is not on Nix; she need only smile now and then. Mary and Zorg have been talking intently about politics, a subject about which Nix is certain Mary knows little and cares less, but Nix has been in college long enough to know that sexy men bring out political opinions in otherwise disinterested girls, so she does not question this shift. The horizon is like an endless, glowing light saber, Nix thinks, and dissolves into giggles, happily drunk.
Mary’s voice snaps. “At least everyone in America doesn’t live with their parents until they’re thirty-five! At least we go to college and get real jobs instead of having a twenty-five percent unemployment rate like Barcelona!”
What
? Did Mary really say that? How on earth would
she
know?
Zorg, however, seems nonplussed. He leans back in his rickety chair, waving a cigarette as if to shoo off Mary’s words like flies. “You are so isolated,” he says. “Barcelona is not Spain. It is where silly girls like you go to see Europe on your backs with the Catalan men.”
“I’ve never even been to Spain!” Mary shouts back.
Zorg shrugs. “Barcelona, Mykonos, it is the same. Americans are so ignorant.”
Nix has not been to Barcelona either but is pretty certain it is not indistinguishable from a Greek party island, so she’s not sure she’s following Zorg’s argument. She looks at Titus for his take, but he, too, shrugs and says, “What I can say? He is right. American women, they are whores. What one can do?”
It is the best grammatical showing he has made all day. Nix gasps.
Mary straightens, composing her face. She is a well-mannered girl. The kind whose well-mannered mother passed along to her daughter the knowledge that you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, something Nix is not sure she will ever learn. Mary says calmly, “Well, that’s a generalization, Titus. Not all American women are promiscuous, though I can see where if you only meet them on vacation you might get that impression. There are all kinds of people everywhere—every place is the same when you get down to it. Nation is just an illusion anyway, but it doesn’t stop people from believing in their own country.”
Nation is just an illusion?
What has Mary been
doing
while
But girls are capricious. Only two hours later, in a complete twist of moods, Nix sits at the tavern thinking,
This is what life is all about.
Yes: the beautiful and the terrible intermingled. This thatched awning, whistling in the wind over this tiny restaurant—a heavy storm would pound it down to nothing, scatter its sticks to the sea. The rickety wooden legs of the chair sway under her slight weight, while below the looming cliffs lie rocks like so many sharp teeth that could tear a body apart. And wine. Three bottles of crisp white, nothing like the syrupy red of the night before, a slightly acidic cold bite that chases away the heat of midday with each sip. Ah. Yes. All days should be like this.
They have eaten a fresh fish they selected from a tank while it still lived. A thrill of murder swims in them. The fish was served still wearing its head, delicious, in a puddle of oil, like nearly everything Nix and Mary have eaten here in Greece. They dipped fresh bread into the oil once the fish was gone. Nix is wearing her top now (Mary, so impatient to get naked altogether, forgot to bring one), and it billows, a thin yellow cotton, in the wind. Titus’s head is where it belongs, atop his shoulders, atop his torso, with his ass resting in his own chair.
Hallelujah,
Nix thinks. “Pass the wine,” she says. Obligingly, Titus tries, but the bottle is empty.
It seems Mary and Zorg are bickering, though Nix is gazing at the horizon and not really paying attention. Zorg’s English is pretty good, and since Titus’s is so inferior, the burden of conversation is not on Nix; she need only smile now and then. Mary and Zorg have been talking intently about politics, a subject about which Nix is certain Mary knows little and cares less, but Nix has been in college long enough to know that sexy men bring out political opinions in otherwise disinterested girls, so she does not question this shift. The horizon is like an endless, glowing light saber, Nix thinks, and dissolves into giggles, happily drunk.
Mary’s voice snaps. “At least everyone in America doesn’t live with their parents until they’re thirty-five! At least we go to college and get real jobs instead of having a twenty-five percent unemployment rate like Barcelona!”
What
? Did Mary really say that? How on earth would
she
know?
Zorg, however, seems nonplussed. He leans back in his rickety chair, waving a cigarette as if to shoo off Mary’s words like flies. “You are so isolated,” he says. “Barcelona is not Spain. It is where silly girls like you go to see Europe on your backs with the Catalan men.”
“I’ve never even been to Spain!” Mary shouts back.
Zorg shrugs. “Barcelona, Mykonos, it is the same. Americans are so ignorant.”
Nix has not been to Barcelona either but is pretty certain it is not indistinguishable from a Greek party island, so she’s not sure she’s following Zorg’s argument. She looks at Titus for his take, but he, too, shrugs and says, “What I can say? He is right. American women, they are whores. What one can do?”
It is the best grammatical showing he has made all day. Nix gasps.
Mary straightens, composing her face. She is a well-mannered girl. The kind whose well-mannered mother passed along to her daughter the knowledge that you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, something Nix is not sure she will ever learn. Mary says calmly, “Well, that’s a generalization, Titus. Not all American women are promiscuous, though I can see where if you only meet them on vacation you might get that impression. There are all kinds of people everywhere—every place is the same when you get down to it. Nation is just an illusion anyway, but it doesn’t stop people from believing in their own country.”
Nation is just an illusion?
What has Mary been
doing
while
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