After this morning’s initial flood-back of imperfect reality, my life as I know it continues to slowly seep back in. Seeing my honeymoon suite again really helps in bringing the ridiculous, confusing bullshit back home, but taking a nap that extends from the mid-morning through the late afternoon obliterates the extra hangover-ness of it all.

Unlike the amnesiac-like reawakening of this morning, opening my eyes to the shafts of early Hawaiian sunset seeping through the blinds feels like a lucid continuation of...whatever the hell of I’m doing here.

There’s fucking sand in my bed. I have to remember to flip that Do Not Disturb sign around so housekeeping comes―they should be fucking used to cleaning sand, but I plan to leave a big tip, anyway.

So. Date. That’s coming up.

How do I feel about that? Neutral, I guess, like it’s a working-vacation business meeting. An obligation I’m not thinking much about.

“Madeline.” I have a habit of saying that out loud, post-sleep, while still lying on my back.

That’s her name. I keep forgetting but keep remembering.

I know I don’t really feel neutral about it, but I still don’t know what the fuck I feel.

I get ready to meet Madeline like it’s a well-worn morning routine: half-conscious shower, semiconscious tooth-brushing and flossing, near-unconscious selection of a halfway acceptable outfit.

Wait, no. What the fuck, Ethan? Way more casual than that. What would I be wearing a fucking tie for?

Dark button-down, sleeves rolled up, tucked into dress slacks. Brown belt matching my shoes.

I comb my hair in the full-length bedroom mirror. I need a fucking trim.

I put on my wristwatch and look at it. No time to shave...what time are we supposed to meet again?

I’ve taken part in ribbing coworkers for growing a vacation beard on their honeymoon. A honeymoon is no fucking place for that—at least I don’t think. Some beards look okay, some look like fucking shit...

To be on the safe side, I take one more visit to the bathroom for a quick shave with my straight razor, and I break out the good aftershave lotion.

Who the fuck are you trying to impress? I can hear Audra asking me that―she was there, right at my side, close enough to touch me ever so slightly, when I picked it up at the boutique. I see her tantalizing, off-center smile for a fleeting instant before it disappears, leaving behind a moment of light physical pain, like a soft kick to my gut.

Fuck this shit, it’s time for my date.

Sunset is still in progress when I get to the asphalt path leading back to the beach. The range of scarlet hues are giving way to the bluish tint of dusk, but the colors are still brilliant, near-overwhelming over the western horizon.

Good thing there’s a narrow strip of pavement leading all the way to the beach bar. Last think I need is more sand all over the goddamn place.

This bar isn’t much more than a canopied little counter in the middle of an uncrowded beach.

There’s a scattering of cliché vacationers with shorts, sandals and daypacks surrounding the front and sides of the bar. Nobody’s swimming or surfing or sitting on the beach and watching the sunset.

And there’s no Madeline.

My first thought: there’s no date with Madeline. I’m remembering some drunken dream and fucking following it into reality.

My second thought: the remaining rays of the sunset are sparkling perfectly off her features, which are just as dazzling when laid bare by her pulled-back hairdo.

Fuck, here she is again, appearing out of the thin salty beach air.

“I hope I’m not still dreaming,” is my less than smooth greeting. Why the fuck does this girl make me unable to function normally?

I watch for Madeline’s reaction, her face now just a few inches from mine.

I feel Madeline’s fingers grabbing a fleshy section of my forearm and squeezing. She maintains her gaze into my eyes as her pinch becomes painfully tight.

The emerald of Madeline’s eyes makes her pinch feel like pure magic. I’m not sure if I want her to let go, but she finally does.

“Any doubts left?” Madeline’s eyes reflect her laughter, but she doesn’t even start to smile.

She looks so fucking hot.

“Plenty.”

I smile, but Madeline just stays cool. It drives me fucking crazy.

How do I feel like this about someone I barely know, whose name I’ve only just learned?

My go-to theory is that I’m dealing with fallout from my marriage in ways that I may never understand.

But it doesn’t feel like that. Not at fucking all. It feels so, well…real.

“Pinch me again,” I request, fighting a grin.

Seriousness reenters Madeline’s eyes as she grazes her thumb and forefinger against my arm for the briefest moment. Then the sparkle comes back into her stare.

I have to try not to laugh, not to smile. I can’t tell you the last time I was in that position. Maybe never.

“I need a drink,” Madeline exclaims, just a bit awkwardly. It’s charming as shit.

“Good news: there’s a bar not twenty feet from where we’re standing.”

Shit, I can do better than that.

But right now, I fucking can’t. I’m almost fucking stuttering.

This is more than just fallout. I really hope it is.

Either ignoring what I said or taking action on it, Madeline is already walking to the bar.

She’s walking across the sand, her stylishly lopsided, tropical-print skirt swaying with her determined steps.

I follow directly behind. The sand is crunching under my shoes, but I’ve never cared less about it.

The bartender, an older guy who looks like he founded and built this entire resort himself, immediately gives Madeline his full attention when she squares up to the bar.

I’m still behind her, and with her back to me, Madeline looks unapproachable somehow.

I feel fucking sheepish, which is new territory―like everything else these past few days. It’s like I don’t even know who I am anymore.

“Lava Lava,” Madeline dictates to the bartender. He turns around and gets to work.

“Another drink I’ve never heard of. Is that like kava kava? I guess it does relax you.”

That’s my speech while I slink onto the seat next to Madeline’s. I immediately start going through everything that’s wrong with it in my head. Madeline just kind of nods as the bartender starts running the blender.

“A blender drink,” I add, staying simpler this time.

“Yeah, my blender at home is screwed. Just another thing I’m indulging in here: blended drinks, fresh fruit.”

“Where’s home?” For all I know, she lives a mile away.

The bartender is quick with Madeline’s plastic cup full of red and white swirled, icy whatever the fuck it is.

“It’s mostly fruit, but they didn’t give me the big pineapple wedge this time. What gives, Ethan?”

Yeah, it’s a bit outright fucking startling to hear Madeline say my name. I can’t explain why exactly.

“If you want a pineapple, I can get that for you. I can make that my personal mission right now.”

Madeline sips through her straw.

“Oh, that’s fucking good, though.”

“Should I get one?”

Madeline takes another sip.

“I don’t know, if you like things that are fucking good.”

“Good enough for me.”

I order the fruit-blasted icy drink. We sip our Lava Lavas as night overtakes the islands.

“I appreciate someone who likes a lot of fruit in their poison,” she tells me.

“I like whatever you like,” I return.

Madeline chuckles into her drink. I don’t know if it’s my goddamn fucking cheesiness, or if she actually enjoyed that.

And I don’t care. I’m fixed on her, and she seems fine with my gaze as she drinks casually.

“You can’t be here by yourself,” she informs me.

“That’s news to me.”

I’m torn between the urge to tell her everything and the need to hold back about my pitiful circumstances.

No. She doesn’t need to know that, and no one wants to hear about that crap.

“Do you live here?” I semi-ask, knowing that it’s the second time I’ve asked basically the same damn question, and she’s probably getting bored as fuck.

“Do you?”

“Touché.”

I hope she gets what’s implied—that I don’t want to answer, either.

Madeline seems to get something, because her eyes are meeting mine again.

“You’re gonna be finished with that drink soon,” is what I say for some fucking reason.

“I’m only halfway through.”

I don’t dare look away to check her cup. “I’ll take your word for it, but order whatever you want next.”

“You own this place! I knew it!”

I point to the bartender, who’s serving someone else, with a mock sigh.

“No, you’re thinking of that guy. I just stay here on what’s supposed to be my honeymoon.”

I let it slip out, and Madeline just picks up her drink and takes the straw gently between her fingers for another sip.

“I’m supposed to be here for something like that.” I feel Madeline’s tone change for the first time.

“I think I’m witnessing a rare iteration of serious Madeline. Do tell.”

Madeline shrugs, of fucking course. “Two-week vacation, my first one in fucking years...anyway, I was getting tired of going with my friends to bars and clubs and all that crap.”

“Tired of drinking?”

Madeline kills the last of her drink before answering. “Oh, fuck no! Just wanted to drink somewhere else...with the same friends, but different people, or something.”

Madeline absentmindedly picks up her empty cup and puts it back down.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Don’t believe what?” Madeline glares at me, legitimately annoyed.

“Serious Madeline, indeed. I mean I don’t believe you have trouble meeting people.”

For the second time at the bar, Madeline makes earnest eye contact. “Are you really trying to give me the same compliment I gave you earlier?”

“If I enjoy something, I like to show my appreciation in kind.”

“Good to know you’re the mutual kinda guy. Come up with your own lines, though.”

We order another round, Madeline demanding pineapple wedges. What the bartender ends up serving is an entire chopped pineapple on a plate.

“I’ll just say it: people who’ve never had pineapple in Hawaii haven’t really had pineapple,” I declare while taking a big bite of fruit―the first food I’ve had in over a day.

“The mass market ones are from here, I don’t think they’re anything special. Fresher, though. They don’t ripen after picking.”

It looks like Madeline enjoys her pineapple more than she lets on after taking a bite.

“Fresher. Exactly. It can’t not make a difference.”

Madeline proceeds to take in about a third of her fresh drink through the straw.

“What-fucking-ever.”

“There’s no reason not to appreciate some tropical goddamn fruit.”

I sip my own drink, and Madeline actually fucking laughs for real.

“I hope we can do better than that tonight,” she fires back.

I put down the fruit wedge and see Madeline smiling meekly at her drink.

“Your call. Everything’s better in Hawaii.”

Madeline does her famous shrug.

“Eh, we’ll see about that.”

With only part of a slice of pineapple in my stomach over 24-plus hours, it doesn’t take many rounds to get me back to the same unsteadiness.

And then Madeline’s leading me onto the beach, towards the ocean.

“You think you’re gonna get me with this again? I’m down one set of clothes already.”

“You’re complaining about losing clothes, Pineapple Man? What the fuck did you come to Hawaii for?”

It’s like she didn’t take my flippant honeymoon comment seriously.

“Maybe a few romantic walks on the beach…but not too many nights sleeping under the stars.”

I look up at the night sky, and holy shit, there are a lot of fucking stars visible.

I look back at Madeline, but she’s staring up at the sky herself.

“There’s the Milky Way. Can’t see that shit from the city.”

I want to ask what city, but I don’t.

“It’s nice to look at, but I prefer sleeping indoors.”

“Even tonight?”

We’ve both stopped now. Madeline moves in closer.

“Sleeping or not, I’d like to end up back in my suite at one point.”

Madeline’s eyes widen. “A room’s not good enough for you? I want to see what a suite looks like here.”

“That can be arranged,” I respond calmly. “That can be so very fucking arranged.”