Him: Aren’t you going to go in the water?
Me: No.
Him: It’s refreshing.
Me: It’s cold. Besides, I have a theory about the water. All these people lay around on the beach all day, but you never see anyone leave to use the bathroom. I think they take a quick dip in the water whenever they have to pee. They relieve themselves right in the water that everyone is swimming in and then come out and say, “Ah, that’s ‘refreshing.’”
Him: Of course! Hell, I did it yesterday.
Me: What?! That’s disgusting.
Him: Stacey, since the Pilgrims landed in 1620, people have been peeing in Massachusetts Bay.
Me: Ewwwwwww!
Him: My father peed in the bay, and his father before him. And so on and so forth. That’s just the way it is.
Me: Yeah, I’m not going in the water.
Voice over intercom: Attention travelers, a piece of jewelry was left at the security checkpoint. A piece of jewelry for the belly button was left at the security checkpoint. If your belly button is bare, you need to return to the security checkpoint to pick up your jewelry.
The Captain senses I am bored. Maybe he’s being intuitive because I haven’t asked what we’re going to DO this afternoon for about twenty-five minutes now.
He takes me mini golfing. I am deluded in believing that putting is supremely easy. I expect to kick his ass.
I am embarrassingly bad.
People are stacked up on either side of us. I can’t stand knowing that they see how poorly I’m doing. I think it makes things worse.
Rain begins to sprinkle us by the sixth hole.
At the tenth hole I drag the ball more than tap it on my last stroke because it’s right next to the cup. The Captain suggests I gave it too much help. I snap, “It’s mini golf, not the PGA.” The woman ahead of us laughs.
The last hole is more or less guaranteed to be a one shot deal. Unless you’re me. It takes me four.
And I practically kick it in.
I decide I dislike mini golf.
Whenever the Captain isn’t looking, I sneak a square from the fudge we bought yesterday. The sign in the window claimed “Best Homemade Fudge” and I’m pretty sure they’re not kidding.
He emerges from the hall and walks my way. I know that he plans to give me a kiss and in doing so will discover my secret. A guilty grin spreads across my face.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“Nothing!”
“Why are you smiling at me that way then?” he says as he leans down and pecks my lips. He pauses and looks at me accusingly. “And you didn’t even cut me a piece?”
I think that if an orgasm could be a food, it would be fudge.
The Captain offers me lunch. He has forgotten the bread for our sandwiches. He has, however, remembered his Sam Adams, a bottle opener, and a plastic cup. As I eat my individually wrapped cheese slices, I curse men for their poor sense of priorities.
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