We wait while he wipes down the bar and locks the doors, then pile into his small, dark car. The blonde Marine with the off kilter American accent sits in the passenger seat.
(His wife is asleep — tired from the beach, he says — but we all know they’ve been fighting.
No, that’s not true. I didn’t know. The bartender tells me.)
He’s too young to be married. Too pretty. I tell him this.
You’re too young and pretty to be married.
He laughs and smiles like a movie star. I see why they fight.
Porto C. is yellow shorts and dropped ice creams during the day, but empty at night. We go the wrong way down one way streets and park diagonally at the curb.
We stop at a small and bright bar. I can tell it isn’t summer yet — it’s nearly empty and there are no fireflies. Or maybe that’s just an American thing.
We take pulls on strong beers and peel wet labels. The boys slam each other’s bottles against the counter, pull faces, drink too quickly to beat the foam.
We go to a moonlit beach that I will never find again.
(We tried the next day, got lost, and were cursed at for ignoring road signs.)
On the ride home, warm, soaked to the waist, salt drying on my bare legs, trip-hop beats shudder out open windows and sand shimmers beneath my toes.
