others sat in the shade. Ziggy stood in the sun. He understood that something big was being talked about and he understood that he was being mocked. But the connections eluded him. He tried to look cocky; he hoped the meeting was finished. Silently he cursed Angelina for coming to Key West and messing with his concentration. He cursed her and he thought about her neck.
*
Angelina had slept badly, had awakened with damp and tangled sheets between her thighs, her eyes itchy behind puffy lids. Her skin felt wrong. Though unrested, she couldn't wait to get out of bed, to put the goading night behind her. She wanted coffee and daylight, and she wanted to talk to Michael.
She slipped into a modest one-piece bathing suit, and went down to the courtyard, where breakfast was laid out on a table covered with fronds from the traveler palm, and thwarted bees hovered around the fruits and juices under their pagodas of frail white netting. She took coffee and a mango muffin and a wedge of melon and sat down in a lounge chair by the pool.
She sipped and nibbled and absently absorbed the guileless intimacy, like something out of childhood, of a resort waking up. A man appeared in boxer shorts with hearts on them, took two cups of coffee and two bananas, retreated to his room. A drag queen came by in a long pink robe, his hair in curlers, drank guava juice and smoked a cigarette. The day's first sleepy-eyed nudists dropped their towels and took their wake-up dips. Angelina could estimate how long they'd been at Coral Shores by how closely the color of their buttocks matched the rest of them. For the first time ever that she knew of, she wondered how Sal would look with nothing on.
She fetched more coffee, waited for Michael to wake up.
She waited a long time. The sun got higher, shadows shrank inward like evaporating puddles. Finally the buffet was broken down like a stage set, the coffee urns rolled away on metal tables that looked surgical.
Angelina watched the little square of patio in front of Michael's room, but when Michael finally appeared, it was not by way of his own door, but through the picket gate that separated the courtyard from the heat and possibilities of the world beyond. Angelina saw him before he noticed her, and determined beyond a doubt that he was wearing last night's clothes. She knew somehow that they'd been off then on again. She waved.
He came over, said a nonchalant good morning, squinted through somewhat bloodshot eyes toward the place where the buffet had been. He said, "Coffee's gone already?"
She handed him the last half-cup of her own, and he sat down at the foot of her lounge chair.
A slightly awkward moment passed. Michael's posture was relaxed, fatigued, yet also slightly smug, puffed up. Angelina felt her forehead flushing, her mouth going dry, and she dimly realized it was because of the tweaking proximity of sex, a newly admitted awareness that desire was all around her, as various as flavor and as enveloping as air. "Nice night?" she said at last.
"Wonderful night," said Michael, sipping the lukewarm coffee, toying with his earrings. "Miraculous night." His green eyes were dreamy, a reddish stubble had sprouted on his cheeks and glinted in the sun.
Angelina gave him a moment to be coy, then said, "So tell me."
Michael said, "David. His name is David. We met at the Copa. Didn't dance. Hardly talked at first. Just, you know, locked eyes. Then walked on the beach. Saw a spectacular moonset, a perfect orange slice right down to the horizon."
Angelina smiled but also felt a pang that took her by surprise. Envy. Why hadn't she known nights like that, glorious nights with moonlight on salt water in the arms of a thrilling lover?
"Been a long time," Michael went on, "since I met someone and everything just clicked."
"I'm happy for you," Angelina said. She meant it though it took an effort.
He heard the wistfulness. He swiveled to face her, put a hand on her ankle. "Hey, we both found our princes
*
Angelina had slept badly, had awakened with damp and tangled sheets between her thighs, her eyes itchy behind puffy lids. Her skin felt wrong. Though unrested, she couldn't wait to get out of bed, to put the goading night behind her. She wanted coffee and daylight, and she wanted to talk to Michael.
She slipped into a modest one-piece bathing suit, and went down to the courtyard, where breakfast was laid out on a table covered with fronds from the traveler palm, and thwarted bees hovered around the fruits and juices under their pagodas of frail white netting. She took coffee and a mango muffin and a wedge of melon and sat down in a lounge chair by the pool.
She sipped and nibbled and absently absorbed the guileless intimacy, like something out of childhood, of a resort waking up. A man appeared in boxer shorts with hearts on them, took two cups of coffee and two bananas, retreated to his room. A drag queen came by in a long pink robe, his hair in curlers, drank guava juice and smoked a cigarette. The day's first sleepy-eyed nudists dropped their towels and took their wake-up dips. Angelina could estimate how long they'd been at Coral Shores by how closely the color of their buttocks matched the rest of them. For the first time ever that she knew of, she wondered how Sal would look with nothing on.
She fetched more coffee, waited for Michael to wake up.
She waited a long time. The sun got higher, shadows shrank inward like evaporating puddles. Finally the buffet was broken down like a stage set, the coffee urns rolled away on metal tables that looked surgical.
Angelina watched the little square of patio in front of Michael's room, but when Michael finally appeared, it was not by way of his own door, but through the picket gate that separated the courtyard from the heat and possibilities of the world beyond. Angelina saw him before he noticed her, and determined beyond a doubt that he was wearing last night's clothes. She knew somehow that they'd been off then on again. She waved.
He came over, said a nonchalant good morning, squinted through somewhat bloodshot eyes toward the place where the buffet had been. He said, "Coffee's gone already?"
She handed him the last half-cup of her own, and he sat down at the foot of her lounge chair.
A slightly awkward moment passed. Michael's posture was relaxed, fatigued, yet also slightly smug, puffed up. Angelina felt her forehead flushing, her mouth going dry, and she dimly realized it was because of the tweaking proximity of sex, a newly admitted awareness that desire was all around her, as various as flavor and as enveloping as air. "Nice night?" she said at last.
"Wonderful night," said Michael, sipping the lukewarm coffee, toying with his earrings. "Miraculous night." His green eyes were dreamy, a reddish stubble had sprouted on his cheeks and glinted in the sun.
Angelina gave him a moment to be coy, then said, "So tell me."
Michael said, "David. His name is David. We met at the Copa. Didn't dance. Hardly talked at first. Just, you know, locked eyes. Then walked on the beach. Saw a spectacular moonset, a perfect orange slice right down to the horizon."
Angelina smiled but also felt a pang that took her by surprise. Envy. Why hadn't she known nights like that, glorious nights with moonlight on salt water in the arms of a thrilling lover?
"Been a long time," Michael went on, "since I met someone and everything just clicked."
"I'm happy for you," Angelina said. She meant it though it took an effort.
He heard the wistfulness. He swiveled to face her, put a hand on her ankle. "Hey, we both found our princes
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