A Live One

It's a trap! The cheapest thing on the menu is a fried fish for thirty-five Euros; it's a bad place, the kind of place I hate and I hate myself for landing up here. But I'm staying - my legs are heavy and finished and my shoulder hurts from lugging my bag around. The search was too long. And now I've failed. The thirty-five Euro fried fish is my punishment.

Here comes the stone-faced waiter, the one who urged me to sit down here. He wants me to order a seafood platter, but I won't, I'm not ashamed - for me it'll be the fish. He is disappointed. Somehow his stone face manages to show me his disappointment.

"To drink?"
"A glass of white wine."

Now I hear Stoneface luring another tourist in; he's using the exact same routine he used on me. It works again. In the corner of my eye I see the new victim being seated at the table next to me. Stoneface tries to tempt her with the seafood platter; she nonchalantly orders the fried fish.
"Are you sure? It's fried whole. With the head. And the eyes."
"That's fine," she replies dismissively.

I steal a look at her. Her her is black. She has a short, straight fringe. Under the fringe are black sunglasses.

My fish is here and I'm eating it and it's shit. Okay, it's not shit, it's fish. But it's not thirty-five Euros of fish.

Stoneface is becoming prolific - tourists are filling the remaining tables fast. Too fast, I fear, for I'm sure I'll be strongly encouraged to leave once I've finished my food. My plan was to stay as long as possible, to while away the hours before my ferry leaves.

Girl at table next to me is picking at her newly arrived fish. She isn't even looking at her plate while she picks; her sunglasses face forward onto the sea. She's noticed me observing her.
"How's your fish?"
"Hmmm. It's a fish."
"Mine's no good either, but I don't care: I'm just here for the sunset."

The sunset never occured to me. Such things don't. But there it is: the sun, a burning circle hanging over the sea. It will indeed be setting soon; that explains the fact that the tables out here are now all taken. A Japanese tour group took the last twenty or so places.

"I don't think they'll let me stay for the sunset - there're already people waiting."
"You can come sit with me," is her instantaneous reply.

Oh. That was unexpected. This could become interesting.

"Okay. I'll finish my food and then join you."

I finish my food. I pay. I join her. Stoneface's stone face cannot hide his confusion at the fact that I'm now sitting at another table. I order wine for myself and the girl.

Now that I'm sitting opposite her, I can see her properly and my suspicions are confirmed: she is very attractive. She's wearing an airy, sky-blue summer dress. Her arms are long and very slim; her skin is perfectly smooth. I must not blow this. I must not blow this...

She speaks. Her words flow continuously over me, and I listen and answer her questions and make little comments, but the conversation is hers. I can accept that. She tells me that she is Lebanese, that she is a trader at a bank, that her last boyfriend caused her a lot of trouble, that she's been here five days, that she's flying away in a few hours, that she went out last night and she danced with a handsome guy and all the other girls were jealous and then he asked if he could kiss her and she said no and he became angry.
"Why can't I just have fun? I think it's gross to just kiss some stranger that I've just met. I'm a Christian, you know?"
I tell her that I think it's ridiculous that she can't "just have fun." I dont' tell her I'm an atheist. I don't tell her that I'd prefer it if she'd be more of a slut.

Our wine glasses keep emptying; Stoneface keeps bringing new ones. The red sun dips into the sea, lighting up its surface. Each of the thousands of ripples has its own glint. Girl takes photos.

And now I cannot believe my ears: Stoneface is telling us that people are waiting for our table. It's not a very subtle hint. Girl is not happy.
"I told you I wanted to see the sunset."
"The sunset is over, madam."
Girl is now considerably less happy and shouts at Stoneface, loud enough for all present to hear, that she is not to be treated like some stupid tourist, that he should show some respect to his customers, especially at the prices he expects them to pay, and that she came here to see the sunset and was not ready to leave. An American from two tables away starts cheering.
"You tell him! This place is ridiculous!"
Stoneface takes strain.
"I have promised this table to those guests waiting there," he indicates, "but if you wish to stay, I can seat you at a different table, further from the water."
"Well why didn't you say that in the first place?" demands Girl.

We've moved to the other table now; Stoneface has faded into the background. While the front of my mind is pretending to listen to Girl, the back of my mind knows that this is going to end well. The wine has had an effect. It has dissolved all subtlety: Girl is worshipping me. She keeps telling me how nice I am. She tells me she wished she met me before today, before the last day. She would become annoying, but her time to annoy me will run out soon anyway.

There's no purpose in staying here any longer so I tell her that and ask if she'll go somewhere else for a drink with me - somewhere better. I'm thinking somewhere cheaper, but I don't say that. The wine we've drunk here will cost a fortune. She agrees and calls Stoneface.

And she insists on paying! She is showing off and wants me to think she has money, as though I care. I accept and act calm although I'm not calm because how often in my life will I meet a girl that looks like this and wants me and pays for my drinks? Never again.

We're at a cafe, also on the water, but a much better place. The waitress is an arty looking blond and her face is not stone. We order a coffee each.

And now Girl seems to be getting desperate because she keeps repeating how nice I am: "You are such a nice guy, such a nice guy..." and so on and so on until it is too much, I have to act now, I have been forced, so I lean across our little round table and taste her and she tastes me back.

We rush through narrow lanes, blurs of white and blue and little shop windows and tourists; we rush through a front entrance, through a room door, onto a white bed. Before I've really touched her, she pulls her little dress over her head and her panties down onto the floor. She's quick girl, a thrashing eel, a squirming worm. All movement and blur. And sound. She writhes and turns and twists and pulls and pushes, all to a time several multiples faster than my own rhythm. It doesn't fit my slow pace.

It can't go on like this. I shift my weight onto her; I pin her down flat and take what I want.

"I've got to check out and go to the airport now," she says. Her little hands hold mine to her.

On my way to the harbour, alone again with my heavy bags, I feel more confident, but nothing else.