I take a seat and order. “Whiskey. Neat.” My barstool ebbs and flows with the residual currents that have followed me in from the hotel pool. I was out there too long. The drink touches down neatly on a napkin before me and the hand of woman serving it lifts off from the glass like a dragonfly. “I peed in the pool today,” I hush. She admires my directness. I can tell. “Who hasn’t?” she flutters. I can hear the sound of sexually frustrated cicadas behind her teeth. I take a sip and move my bishop longways. “Excuse me, but you can’t do that kind of stuff in here,” she complains. So, I let go of my bishop and consider her queen. I want to further explain why I’m not wearing pants, but it’s not necessary. The urination and the whiskey have already covered that. I finish my drink and let the waters push me out to sea. “See you tomorrow, Captain,” she says. I wish she’d stop calling me that.
©2013 Eric Adams