Sunsets of Tulum. Mr Raymond Avery Bartlett
at Sharon, and then looked at Clione. “I should be devastated. But I’m not. Ask me tomorrow, maybe I’ll be sobbing into my pillow, but right now? Tonight? I’m still in disbelief that I’m having dinner with the two of you.”
“You don’t sound happy with her,” Clione said.
“When you’re with someone that long you don’t just toss in the towel and give up. You want it to work. They’re a part of you.”
“But you’re not happy.”
“It’s not about being happy,” Reed said, suddenly feeling defensive. He reached for the bottle and topped off his glass. “Besides, I’m happy enough.”
“Are you?” said Clione. She stared at him, unflinching. He tried to stare back but quickly dropped his gaze to the wine.
“I think it’s really noble to want to adopt a child,” Sharon said, looking as if she were going to cry. She put her hand out and rubbed Reed on the forearm. “It’ll work out. Things always do.”
“Bullshit they do,” said Clione. “Nothing works out unless you claw your way up a cliff to make it happen. And that includes happiness, too. It doesn’t just happen because you think it should.”
She sounded so bitter that for a few moments nobody had anything to add. Into the silence came the owner of the restaurant, a young Italian in a white apron and chef’s hat, who approached and hovered over them, putting a large hand on each girl’s shoulder.
“Everything to your liking?” he asked. “You must eat now so if storm Wanda hits you’ll not be hungry!”
Clione patted her stomach. Her left hand was tucked in at her side, the napkin resting on the bent fingers, discreetly hiding them. “It was wonderful, just perfect.”
“She’s not kidding,” Sharon said. “Deeeeelish.”
“Bene, bene.” He winked at Reed. “I envy you. A man between two beautiful flowers. You must promise to give me your leftovers.” He winked. “And I do not mean the food.”
“Ew,” Sharon said, after he’d left. “Are there girls out there who actually think, ‘Hey, now that he said that I guess I’m kind of hot for him’?”
“It must work,” Reed said. “Otherwise Italians would have died out long ago.”
The conversation stopped again. They all sipped their wine. Reed caught Clione looking at him over the rim of her glass, and this time he held her glance until she smiled at him.
“So what are you writing?” Reed asked. “I always see you with that book.”
“Don’t ask her that,” Sharon groaned. “It’s like asking a religious nut about God. We’ll get sucked into it forever.”
Clione shook her head, no. “Tell him what you would write then. See what he thinks.”
Sharon laughed, then lowered her voice and spoke very softly. “Not me, not what I would write. But Clione should write a story about a female superhero. She’s just like all the other superheroes. Has mad skills, can leap over tall buildings in a single bound, all that. But here’s the kicker: she gets wicked bad cramps every time she gets her period. PMS so bad she has to lie down for like two days. That’s like her kryptonite. You know?” Sharon leaned in close and dropped her voice even lower, to a whisper. “And then one day, the villain figures it out, right? And he times his heists perfectly: every twenty-eight days, just when the superheroine is gobbling down half a Midol bottle and lying on the couch all day. She’s powerless, completely powerless. All she wants to do is watch soaps and sitcom reruns. And the townspeople turn against her, see?”
Clione wrinkled her nose. “It’d only work if she had a regular period. If she was never even a day or two late. Half the women in the world would be like, ‘I wish.’“
“How does the story end?” asked Reed.
Sharon smirked. “The villain offers her a choice, right? She can trade her superpowers for a normal period! Light flow! Minor discomfort and no bloating! But,” Sharon’s voice quavered, “she’ll never be a superhero again.” As she leaned back, some wine escaped the lip of the balloon crystal and spread into the white starch of the tablecloth.
“That’s the dumbest story I’ve ever heard.” Clione said.
The tall girl shrugged, picked a strand of hair that clung to the side of her wine glass. “This would be bigger than Batman!”
Clione focused her attention behind them, pointing into the night.
“Is that lightning? From Wanda?”
They turned and stared at the ink-black sky. For a few seconds there was nothing, then came a flash and a yellow-orange flicker that spread out across the night like a series of strobes. It was too far away to hear the thunder.
“The storm?” Sharon said, standing up. “That would be so romantic, waiting it out by candlelight.”
Clione shook her head. “No, I heard it stalled somewhere in the Atlantic. Must just be heat lightning.”
Sharon looked at Reed. “It’s a perfect night to go skinny-dipping, don’t you think?”
“Sure,” Reed said, staring at the center of the table. He looked at Clione. “Sounds…great.”
“Let’s go! This is just the perfect night to be crazy!” Sharon kicked off her shoes and started walking toward the waterline. “Aren’t you coming?” she called, looking back. “It’s beautiful!”
Clione put her napkin down. “Sorry about Sharon. I said I was going for dinner and she tagged along. She kind of likes you.”
“Sharon’s funny. I like her too.”
“I mean she likes you likes you.”
Clione finished her glass of wine and shook her head when Reed offered to refill it.
“Don’t you feel like swimming? Trying?” she said. Before he could reply, she had pushed back her chair and followed Sharon’s footsteps into the darkness, leaving Reed at the table alone.
Reed looked at the sky. Sure enough, out in the distance there was a yellow-green flicker, followed a minute later by a low rumble, like a truck going by on a far-off highway. He poured himself a glass of wine and listened to the light sound of the wind, the girls’ laughter from out on the beach somewhere. Sharon let out a high-pitched squeal. They were playing in the waves.
He forced himself to focus on the wine. It made his lips pleasantly numb. His whole body felt light. Out of tune. The night, the girls, the dusty town of Tulum, the chickens in the road and the looming jungle and the sea out there. Two girls swimming naked in the darkness. The restaurant with its soft candlelight and ocean breezes, as if he’d stepped onto a movie set. His stomach tightened when he thought about trying to swim. He felt angry, as if he’d been cheated out of something important and beautiful. Something made him miss Laurel and resent her at the same time. He resented the owner too: He had cheapened the dinner, turned it from a fun night out with new friends into something sordid. He wasn’t just another cliché older guy trying to get a fling on.
He paid the bill and walked out past the few remaining diners into the dark night toward the beach where Clione and Sharon had gone. The girls were nowhere to be seen, but he followed their footsteps, just visible in the still-warm sand. To the north, lightning flashed more frequently, illuminating the shoreline and the palms. His bare feet stepped on something soft: a sandal. He peered again into the darkness and realized that Clione was standing quite close by, crouched, her expression a mix of curiosity and amusement. When she saw that he was watching her she laughed.
“Took you long enough,” she said.
“I thought you were already swimming.”
“Sharon is. I waited for you.”