working.”
“I know what you mean. We should go dancing again.”
“Sure, let’s do that.” But I knew we wouldn’t. I’d asked him out soon after arriving in Huatulco. A first date, I’d gushed to Manuela, who’d been skeptical but didn’t say why. We drove to a club about forty minutes away, a hole in the wall in Santa Maria de Huatulco that boasted a Reggaeton DJ from Mexico City. I wasn’t keen on the music, but I was thrilled to be with Enrique. We joined a small group of his friends, a mix of men and women, most in their early thirties, all stylishly dressed. On the dance floor, Enrique maintained a platonic distance, his body like a frowning chaperone.
Halfway into the evening, he swivelled me around and nudged me into the arms of his friend Antonio, who pulled me close for a sweaty slow dance. By the end of the song, I could feel Antonio’s erection pressed against my stomach. When I realized that Enrique was at the bar, chatting with friends and oblivious to me, I pulled Antonio closer.
Enrique and I went clubbing a few times after that, but it was always the same. I’d long given up the idea of dating him, but I knew I still dressed for him. I told myself that unrequited crushes could be fun.
He returned to his bartending duties and I scanned the crowded lounge. As I’d expected, Serena and Sebastiano were perched near the front. I had a hunch they were waiting for me that evening.
For a moment, I wondered if they’d lied about their names; this was how some swinging couples played, seeking anonymity or trying on new personas. A few stumbled over their pseudonyms, letting their real names slip during moments of disinhibition and pleasure. Some chose alliterative fake monikers like June and Jeremy, Will and Winsome. The women often favoured aliases more exotic-sounding than their own names: Sophia, Andrina, Monique, Imani, Marina. When I’d later look them up in the Oceana database, I’d learn that they were really Susan, Tammy, Dianne, Joanne, or Jen. Serena and Sebastiano were not travelling with my company, so I had no way of double-checking.
“Ameera, buona sera!” Sebastiano held out a piña colada. I briefly hesitated in my reach for the glass, remembering Anita’s letter. But Sebastiano’s green eyes drew me in. I accepted the drink and Serena’s smile widened.
We made polite small talk and I took care to maintain a professional posture. I was vigilant to onlookers and acknowledged other vacationers who passed by, because, even out of uniform, most viewed me as perpetually on duty. In fact, one lady interrupted our conversation to ask about her malfunctioning in-room safe.
I suggested that we move to a less busy part of the bar, a section with leather couches and dim lighting. Serena grabbed my wrist and playfully pulled me down next to her while Sebastiano settled onto an ottoman across from us, his knees brushing mine. The hair on his calves was thick and downy, and I stretched my legs to make full contact. I glanced Serena’s way to see if she minded and she nudged closer, pushing her heavy breasts against my bare shoulder.
Our conversation remained polite during our second drink, even while our bodies spoke a language more intimate. They asked about my job: did I like being so far from home? Where did I live and eat? I’d grown accustomed to curiosity from tourists. Most worked nine-to-five jobs, had children and pets, and suffered long winters. They pictured my life as a year-round holiday. And perhaps I’d once imagined it would be that way, too.
∆
Leave winter behind! Take on new challenges! Competitive salary!
The Oceana employment posting crossed my inbox in early May, a week after the incident with Gavin. I was about to delete it when my mother phoned.
“How’s work?”
“Quiet. Dull. I think I need a change. Listen to this.” I read the Oceana advertisement to her.
“Well, it would be a lateral move, but if they are a large company, there might be more opportunities. There’s no room for movement where you are now.” Her tone was neutral, which I appreciated.
“Yeah, I think I’ll apply.”
“It might not be a bad idea for you to get away, have some new experiences. It would give you a bit of space from Gavin, too.”
“Well, that’s over. For good. I saw him last week at a friend’s birthday party and … well, I’m not gonna go there ever again.” I knew I sounded defensive.
“I’m glad. Listen, have you thought about going back to school? These days everyone seems to need a graduate degree. I’d be happy to help with tuition.” Her voice rose at the end of the sentence, her way of making a suggestion without imposing.
I changed the subject to an ongoing conflict with her neighbour who’d built a fence ten inches over her property line. The issue had consumed her for months. She’ d sent two letters to her him and had met with her city councillor. I wondered why she hadn’t just knocked on the guy’s door and talked with him directly.
Two weeks later, I boarded an early train to Ottawa for a one o’clock interview, stumbled my way through the French oral exam, and then was interviewed by Anita McLeod. I was surprised that she was South Asian and wore a paisley-printed shalwaar kameez; her accent had sounded as Canadian as mine when we’ d spoken over the phone. After the initial formal interview questions, she spoke more casually. She revealed that she had just returned from her honeymoon in Huatulco, where Oceana was developing its resorts. She gushed about her wedding, which included a combination of Hindu and Scottish traditions.
“I guess I’m a little old fashioned.” She confessed that she’ d taken her husband’s surname.
“There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s all about making the choice that’s good for you, right?” I said strategically, aware that I was still being interviewed. I didn’t know anyone who followed the anachronistic marital convention anymore.
“Did you do the same? Is Gilbert your married name?”
“No, I’m single. My father is Indian, but my mother is Canadian. I took her surname because I didn’t grow up with him.” I fidgeted in my seat hoping I wasn’t revealing too much about my unusual upbringing. But Anita didn’t seem bothered by these details; she babbled on about immigrating to Canada when she was a preschooler and we bonded over our South Asian ancestries, with me doing my best to nod and smile knowingly at her first-generation anecdotes.
We went to Swiss Chalet for an early dinner and then she dropped me at the station in time for the evening train. A voice mail arrived the next day with an offer. Finally, after two dull years at the travel agency, I had some positive news to share with my friends: I’m moving to Mexico!
Over the next three weekends, I sold my furniture, winter clothing, and appliances on Craigslist. Everything else got crammed into eleven cardboard boxes that I lined up against my mother’s townhouse basement wall. For Huatulco, I’d packed like a tourist, filling one large suitcase with summer dresses, toiletries, my laptop, and two boxes of condoms. At the last minute, I tucked in a hardcover book from my childhood, Exploring India.
∆
“Oh mio Dio! Your job is more boring than mine. And I’m an information technology manager at a hospital,” Serena said after I’d told them all about my contract and routines. Usually, vacationers’ responses to the mundane details of my life were bright-sided: “At least you get to be near the ocean, eh?” or “But the weather here, you can’t beat that!”
“You
