By Dian Parker

The waitress poured cold water in our glasses. Peter didn’t look at me, or the waitress, or the glass. Kept fiddling with the third button of his shirt. The water was cold but didn’t quench my thirst, only made me crave more. Unusual in this dusty town to get cold anything, except the stares from the locals.

I was tired. Tired of the heat, of the town, of Peter’s boredom. Now was the worst time of day to be out. We should be back in the room at least trying to sleep, pretending we were relaxing.

Peter finally looked up. He even smiled, with that left-handed smile of his. It got me every time.

“So you think we should?”

“Oh, Peter, we’ve gone through this. We decided.”

“But…I don’t know. Can’t we discuss it some more?”

“Where’s the waitress? I want more water.”

“I’ll go get her.”

“No, don’t.”

“Kate, you’re angry with me.”

“No, I’m just tired.”

“It’s the heat. I think that’s the way the whole thing began.”

“I want out.”

“We can’t go yet. The money hasn’t come.”

Weeks we’d been waiting for his money in this god-forsaken town, running up credit for everything.

“I thought you said it would come today,” I said. “Jesus. Will you stop fiddling with that button? Waitress!”

The waitress looked over and I lifted my glass. She brought the water. Tepid. Peter knew my temper and jumped in. “We’ll have some langosta. And two cervezas. Corona.”

“No Corona,” the waitress said.

“But yesterday… Two Tecates, then.”

The waitress walked away, swinging her hips like it was Sunday and she’d gotten church out of the way.

“Listen, it’ll probably come tomorrow. Then, we’ll go. Kate. I’ve got a boat to take us.”

“Whose?”

“A new one. Just in.”

“Yeah, right.”

“This one will take us, Kate. Most definitely.”

I stood up and left the table. Outside was better. There was a slight wind, but I could tell the Sirocco was on its tail. You could smell it—sand and camel dung, even though there were no camels this side of the ocean.

When I came back, Peter was telling the waitress his shark story. How did he get it going so fast?

“…the Prince of the Sea. One gleaming eye, as big as my fist.” Peter showed the waitress his fist. “Laser-sharp. On me! Circling…”

“Peter.”

“Will you let me finish, Kate?”

“Are the langosta ready?” I asked the waitress.

“Sí, sí. Sure.” She laid her hand on Peter’s shoulder and looked down at him. “The eye. That great, big eye,” she said, and went into the kitchen.

“How do you manage that? Every. Time.”

Peter drank some water, not looking at me. Again he’d started in on one of his five stories. In the beginning, I never stopped him, but after two years…

The lobster arrived and the beer in cans. Always the same. Warm beer, excellent fish, morose company.

We wanted too much but we couldn’t move, and not because of the heat. And not because of the town or because we’d run out of money. It was time. Time I left him alone.

“I think we should split up.”

“Oh, Kate, don’t. Not again.”

I stood up. I thought about putting my hand on his shoulder, but the waitress had done that.

I went outside again. The wind had definitely picked up.

Back inside, Peter looked so down and out, but I was tired of feeling sorry for him, hoping he’d snap out of it, but he couldn’t. It was the way he was made.

“I’m going back to the hotel for my things.” I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I’d figure it out. Just like everything.

Quietly, almost too small to hear, Peter said, “And we had so many plans.”

This time, I did lay my hand on his shoulder. I leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. Too long I stayed there, that beautiful skin.

Stepping away, I said, “The Sirocco’s coming. You best plan.”

“I’ll take the boat. Tonight.”

“That’s crazy, Peter. Suicidal.”

“I know how to handle boats.”

“But not the wind.” I could see the anger brewing. First he’d pout, then rage. Predictable. Awful. “Have it your way. You’ll never make it.”

“You’ll see, Kate. You just wait and see.”

I started back to the hotel through the alleys to avoid the mounting wind. Shutters were slapping and children crying, mothers becoming unglued. An old woman pushed past me with such force that I was slammed against a wall.

“Puta,” she said. “Puta loca.” Crazy, crazy bitch.

The wind was howling now, a banshee of a wind.

Here I was, yet again, losing myself.

Down another alley, I tripped over garbage pails, watched the hissing of starving cats. The labyrinth of passageways all looked the same: rotting garbage, feces, and pain.

I was lost.

Sliding tight along a brick wall, I finally came out onto a street. All was thick haze: a sickening ocher filled with billions of stinging crystals. Grit in my teeth, whipping my face, my head, my bare legs. I’d lost a shoe. My purse.

So what? Better this way.

This time it would be the wind. A better conqueror.