one knee, with the ring in his hand. He would wait, he decided, until after they ate their dinner. He would wait until they were laughing again.
He caught six freshwater shrimp, which they boiled over their campfire after the sun had gone down. They peeled the shell from the shrimp tails and pulled the meat out with their fingers. She didn’t like the heads, so she gave hers to him and he sucked on them. The shrimp were large, bigger than jumbo shrimp in a restaurant, and they had the clean, fresh taste of the river water.
“I would like them more if they tasted briny,” she said. “Of the ocean.”
“I like them like this.”
She didn’t answer. In the firelight her eyes were shadowed and her brows, thick and dark, appeared like marker lines on her face. He thought of the girl he had dated during his year in Japan and the way her brows had seemed so delicate and finely shaped on her oval face. Why hadn’the and that girl stayed together? What had come between them?
“I’m still hungry,” Becky said. “Are you? I’ll fix sandwiches.”
“No, I’m full,” he said, though he was still hungry, too. He had caught the shrimp and wanted to feel that he had provided enough for her.
She made two peanut-butter sandwiches with guava jelly and handed one to him. “I’m full,” he repeated, but she left the sandwich on its paper towel beside him. She ate hers quickly, then washed her face and hands, using the washcloth to rub gently behind her ears. She could be fastidious when she wanted to be. While she brushed her teeth, he ate the sandwich and was glad he did. But he didn’t thank her, just threw the paper towel into the fire and watched the white paper catch fire, flame, and then collapse into a million black particles.
He crawled into the tent beside her. “You smell like peanut butter,” she giggled, kissing him.
She climbed on top of him and untied her bikini top. She wriggled out of her shorts, then reached beneath his shirt and tugged it over his head. He flipped her on her back and hovered above her, his chest touching her chest, his shorts rubbing against her bikini bottoms. He kissed her behind her ear where just moments before she had washed her skin. Her flesh had the green scent of fresh water, but her earlobe tasted of salt.
Outside the campfire was dying, and inside the tentthe light was dim. Still, the white of her breasts startled him. He had forgotten how pale they were compared to the rest of her body.
“I’ll marry you,” she said running her hand along the bumps of his spine.
She unfastened the Velcro of his shorts and tugged at the fabric until the shorts gathered at his knees. She slipped out of her bikini bottom. He was hard and wanted to be inside her. He bent down to kiss her stomach. Outside the firewood popped and a small flame blazed, filling the tent with a sudden orange light that faded as quickly as it had flared. A shadow flitted over her body, and Cameron thought suddenly of the fleas, their thick lines weaving across the dog’s chest, and the way Becky had sat motionless when the bugs later landed on her. He felt his desire wither, and pushed himself away.
THIRTY-NINE RULES FOR MAKING A HAWAIIAN FUNERAL INTO A DRINKING GAME
1) Take a drink each time the haole pastor says “hell.”
2) Take a drink each time he asks if anybody in the room wants to go there.
3) Take a drink each time he looks at one of your uncles when he says this.
4) Take a drink because cane was burning next to Kaumualiʻi Highway on the drive from Kekaha to Poipu, and the hot scent reminded you of your grandmother’s house with its upright piano, rattan furniture, and that deep cement sink in the washroom where laundry was scrubbed, and sometimes babies, too. In the family room you and your older cousins used to jostle each other, each of you hoping to be the one who got to sit on Grandma’s lap in her high-backed butterfly chair.
One year ago you moved to Honolulu from Los Angeles, just
He caught six freshwater shrimp, which they boiled over their campfire after the sun had gone down. They peeled the shell from the shrimp tails and pulled the meat out with their fingers. She didn’t like the heads, so she gave hers to him and he sucked on them. The shrimp were large, bigger than jumbo shrimp in a restaurant, and they had the clean, fresh taste of the river water.
“I would like them more if they tasted briny,” she said. “Of the ocean.”
“I like them like this.”
She didn’t answer. In the firelight her eyes were shadowed and her brows, thick and dark, appeared like marker lines on her face. He thought of the girl he had dated during his year in Japan and the way her brows had seemed so delicate and finely shaped on her oval face. Why hadn’the and that girl stayed together? What had come between them?
“I’m still hungry,” Becky said. “Are you? I’ll fix sandwiches.”
“No, I’m full,” he said, though he was still hungry, too. He had caught the shrimp and wanted to feel that he had provided enough for her.
She made two peanut-butter sandwiches with guava jelly and handed one to him. “I’m full,” he repeated, but she left the sandwich on its paper towel beside him. She ate hers quickly, then washed her face and hands, using the washcloth to rub gently behind her ears. She could be fastidious when she wanted to be. While she brushed her teeth, he ate the sandwich and was glad he did. But he didn’t thank her, just threw the paper towel into the fire and watched the white paper catch fire, flame, and then collapse into a million black particles.
He crawled into the tent beside her. “You smell like peanut butter,” she giggled, kissing him.
She climbed on top of him and untied her bikini top. She wriggled out of her shorts, then reached beneath his shirt and tugged it over his head. He flipped her on her back and hovered above her, his chest touching her chest, his shorts rubbing against her bikini bottoms. He kissed her behind her ear where just moments before she had washed her skin. Her flesh had the green scent of fresh water, but her earlobe tasted of salt.
Outside the campfire was dying, and inside the tentthe light was dim. Still, the white of her breasts startled him. He had forgotten how pale they were compared to the rest of her body.
“I’ll marry you,” she said running her hand along the bumps of his spine.
She unfastened the Velcro of his shorts and tugged at the fabric until the shorts gathered at his knees. She slipped out of her bikini bottom. He was hard and wanted to be inside her. He bent down to kiss her stomach. Outside the firewood popped and a small flame blazed, filling the tent with a sudden orange light that faded as quickly as it had flared. A shadow flitted over her body, and Cameron thought suddenly of the fleas, their thick lines weaving across the dog’s chest, and the way Becky had sat motionless when the bugs later landed on her. He felt his desire wither, and pushed himself away.
THIRTY-NINE RULES FOR MAKING A HAWAIIAN FUNERAL INTO A DRINKING GAME
1) Take a drink each time the haole pastor says “hell.”
2) Take a drink each time he asks if anybody in the room wants to go there.
3) Take a drink each time he looks at one of your uncles when he says this.
4) Take a drink because cane was burning next to Kaumualiʻi Highway on the drive from Kekaha to Poipu, and the hot scent reminded you of your grandmother’s house with its upright piano, rattan furniture, and that deep cement sink in the washroom where laundry was scrubbed, and sometimes babies, too. In the family room you and your older cousins used to jostle each other, each of you hoping to be the one who got to sit on Grandma’s lap in her high-backed butterfly chair.
One year ago you moved to Honolulu from Los Angeles, just
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