See what he thinks.”
Sharon laughed, then lowered her voice and spoke very softly. “Not me, not what I would write. But Clione should write a story about a female superhero. She’s just like all the other superheroes. Has mad skills, can leap over tall buildings in a single bound, all that. But here’s the kicker: she gets wicked bad cramps every time she gets her period. PMS so bad she has to lie down for like two days. That’s like her kryptonite. You know?” Sharon leaned in close and dropped her voice even lower, to a whisper. “And then one day, the villain figures it out, right? And he times his heists perfectly: every twenty-eight days, just when the superheroine is gobbling down half a Midol bottle and lying on the couch all day. She’s powerless, completely powerless. All she wants to do is watch soaps and sitcom reruns. And the townspeople turn against her, see?”
Clione wrinkled her nose. “It’d only work if she had a regular period. If she was never even a day or two late. Half the women in the world would be like, ‘I wish.’“
“How does the story end?” asked Reed.
Sharon smirked. “The villain offers her a choice, right? She can trade her superpowers for a normal period! Light flow! Minor discomfort and no bloating! But,” Sharon’s voice quavered, “she’ll never be a superhero again.” As she leaned back, some wine escaped the lip of the balloon crystal and spread into the white starch of the tablecloth.
“That’s the dumbest story I’ve ever heard.” Clione said.
The tall girl shrugged, picked a strand of hair that clung to the side of her wine glass. “This would be bigger than Batman!”
Clione focused her attention behind them, pointing into the night.
“Is that lightning? From Wanda?”
They turned and stared at the ink-black sky. For a few seconds there was nothing, then came a flash and a yellow-orange flicker that spread out across the night like a series of strobes. It was too far away to hear the thunder.
“The storm?” Sharon said, standing up. “That would be so romantic, waiting it out by candlelight.”
Clione shook her head. “No, I heard it stalled somewhere in the Atlantic. Must just be heat lightning.”
Sharon looked at Reed. “It’s a perfect night to go skinny-dipping, don’t you think?”
“Sure,” Reed said, staring at the center of the table. He looked at Clione. “Sounds…great.”
“Let’s go! This is just the perfect night to be crazy!” Sharon kicked off her shoes and started walking toward the waterline. “Aren’t you coming?” she called, looking back. “It’s beautiful!”
Clione put her napkin down. “Sorry about Sharon. I said I was going for dinner and she tagged along. She kind of likes you.”
“Sharon’s funny. I like her too.”
“I mean she likes you likes you.”
Clione finished her glass of wine and shook her head when Reed offered to refill it.
“Don’t you feel like swimming? Trying?” she said. Before he could reply, she had pushed back her chair and followed Sharon’s footsteps into the darkness, leaving Reed at the table alone.
Reed looked at the sky. Sure enough, out in the distance there was a yellow-green flicker, followed a minute later by a low rumble, like a truck going by on a far-off highway. He poured himself a glass of wine and listened to the light sound of the wind, the girls’ laughter from out on the beach somewhere. Sharon let out a high-pitched squeal. They were playing in the waves.
He forced himself to focus on the wine. It made his lips pleasantly numb. His whole body felt light. Out of tune. The night, the girls, the dusty town of Tulum, the chickens in the road and the looming jungle and the sea out there. Two girls swimming naked in the darkness. The restaurant with its soft candlelight and ocean breezes, as if he’d stepped onto a movie set. His stomach tightened when he thought about trying to swim. He felt angry, as if he’d been cheated out of something important and beautiful. Something made him miss Laurel and resent her at the same time. He resented the owner too: He had cheapened the dinner, turned it from a fun night out with new friends into something sordid. He wasn’t just another cliché older guy trying to get a fling on.
He paid the bill and walked out past the few remaining diners into the dark night toward the beach where Clione and Sharon had gone. The girls were nowhere to be seen, but he followed their footsteps, just visible in the still-warm sand. To the north, lightning flashed more frequently, illuminating the shoreline and the palms. His bare feet stepped on something soft: a sandal. He peered again into the darkness and realized that Clione was standing quite close by, crouched, her expression a mix of curiosity and amusement. When she saw that he was watching her she laughed.
“Took you long enough,” she said.
“I thought you were already swimming.”
“Sharon is. I waited for you.” Standing up, she pulled her top off. Her taut breasts shone like alabaster in the silvery midnight. Tonight might be the last time he’d ever see this girl. As if a wave had broken over him, he felt out of control, swallowed up, simultaneously disoriented and devoured.
“Come in!” she said, unabashed, removing her shorts, then panties, one leg at a time. She dropped them on the sand. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness now, and he could see her nipples and the smudge of charcoal between her thighs. Her skin seemed to sparkle, and when she brushed her right arm through her hair he felt claustrophobic with desire.
He forced himself to look away. Curled up and tiny, her clothes looked like pieces of seaweed left at the high-tide line.
“I’ll just watch the stuff. Make sure no one steals it.” He remembered the travel advisories for Mexico, how most theft happens when stuff is left unattended.
“Steal our panties? Even if someone found it, who would want them?” She came closer and reached out for his hand. It was warm. “Come. Swim.”
His fingers felt cold and clammy. He felt as if he were drowning. “Is it safe?”
“It’s like bathwater.”
“Sure, I’ll come in. In just a sec.” He tossed his wallet into the sand beside the clothes.
“Race you!” Clione said, running to the surf. Not looking back, she plunged in, her body illuminated for a moment in blue-green phosphor. He envied that self-confidence, that utter lack of fear. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple grating against his trachea. With her gone, he could breathe again. He inhaled the salty Caribbean air. Walking along the footprints she’d just left, he approached the water like a cat afraid to get its paws wet. The sand here was hard from the waves’ moisture, and it was easy to see where the girls had entered the sea. White swirls broke heavily over the reef about three-hundred yards away. Between that line of surf and the shore he was standing on there was only inky darkness, a humid, pulsating womb.
Another flash of lightning and the beach became visible. The low line of cabañas, the swaying palms. Sharon had piled her clothes up neatly, far enough from the shore that there was no chance of the tide sweeping them away.
“The water’s amazing, Reed. Why are you waiting?”
