Your sandals have sand on them. They are black, a rich shade of black, like how you’d imagine crude oil to appear. They have white straps, and they please you, except the sand in your toes. That you don’t like. In the distance, the waves crash against the beach slowly, inching closer to sand castles that children made earlier. Each wave threatening to bring down a castle, but the sound is relaxing, and you would rather have submerged castles than have the waves go away.
She comes back with the cocktails. She has good taste and that’s why you married her, alcoholic for her and fruit-based for you. You’re driving and don’t have money to pay off the cops. She circles her hand around your waist. You hope that time stops. It feels good to have a beautiful woman who smells just as good as she looks mad over you. You stare into the sunset. A fiery red, the sun a ball of flames about to kiss the horizon that’s a huge mass of blue water. You think of how good it would look on instagram, but her hand is gently scratching your back, and even hundreds of likes would never feel this good.
You stop at the bracelet shop, a sisal covered shack that has a padlock that makes you feel that the crime statistics here are really low. There’s a guy writing names on a grain of rice, you both don’t want one but he is so polite that you end up getting your niece’s name on one. The bracelets are cheap, and you show the old man a thumbs up sign when he gives you change. The engine roars into life and the rented Subaru roars into life, you ease out of the parking lot and merge into the slight traffic from holiday makers like yourself.
At dinner you wish you could eat more. There’s a chef with a genuine smile, that is making meat on order. He’s fat, his crisp, white uniform struggling to hold his frame, with chubby cheeks that you would squeeze if they weren’t on an adult. She asks what you’re thinking about. Why you look like you have things on your mind. You can’t tell her. She’d be devastated. She’d never believe another man again. You instinctively lie to her you’re wondering how it would taste if the chef mixed his fried meat with slices of pineapple from the fruit platter. She kisses your cheek and sashays over to the chef, who beams and waddles over to the fruit platter.
She steps out of the shower. She has steam coming from her hair. Her ivory skin looks delicious. You want to sink your fangs into her skin. Make her squeal in delight. Taste her raspberry body wash on your tongue. Suck on her skin until all you can taste is her bare skin. Make her breathing change. Then it comes to you. In waves. She should know. She might forgive you. It was a mistake. You didn’t mean for it to happen. It was a genuine error in judgment, and now you can’t get it off your mind. And your inbox either. She is sucking on your nipple, and you can’t think properly anymore. You grab her hair and what looks like two passionate humans, but really is unadulterated love on one side and crippling guilt on the other, fall onto the bamboo bed, that in an hour will prove to be stronger than it looks.
She’s asleep. Her breath rising slowly, the mosquitoe net makes her look like she did on the wedding. She looks beautiful, innocent. Like a child, you stare at her and grab your phone. It’s lighting up. She is calling. You refuse to answer. Defiant. She won’t make you ruin your honeymoon. The phone lights up for the fourth time. She won’t stop. You grab the phone angrily and walk out. The air is warm, and you walk to the farthest part of the shore. You hurl insults into the phone. She threatens you. You look down. The moon is full. You notice your sandals have sand on them. They are black, only now menacing, evil shade of black, like how you’d imagine your heart to look like if they opened you up.