Note: All characters engaging in sexual activities are 18 years or older.
*
Winston Thomas, a lanky artist with lanky hair and lanky eyes and lanky everything, lean and sharp as a blade of grass, leans against the railing of the cruise-ship Allure and stares out at the ocean, trying his best to sketch the distant waves and not worry about being a member of that most ignominious of combinations: a college freshman and a virgin.
It almost works. Drawing water is no mean feat. It never stands still -- it's even more poorly behaved than small children and only slightly more favorable in comparison to wind because you can't really draw wind, you can only draw windy things. Like trees and waves and hair. A girl's hair, long and beautiful, caught in the jealous fingers of the wind. And with that fatal thought, Winston's back to worrying about being a virgin.
It always comes back to that. Girls have a sixth-sense about it. They can just tell. They just
know
and that's that. They like an experienced guy, an older guy. Now, Tiffany Rosens, she of blonde hair and blue eyes... he had a chance with her. That is, she mostly ignored him but a couple weeks back, she'd told him she really loved his artwork. The look she'd given him... Smoldering is the only word Winston can think to describe it. He understands looks. He has an eye for them, an artist's eye. Yeah, Tiffany Rosens -- he had a chance. Key word:
had
. But, instead of making business with her, his parents had forced him to go on this trip, a graduation gift that they just so happened to have invited themselves upon.
Cause, really, a Caribbean cruise? How trite.
Winston pauses, erases one of the white-caps of a distant swell, and amends his thought: the cruise is alright. There are some parts he doesn't mind. He likes people watching, the range of people from fat to skinny, swarthy to pale, smooth to wrinkled, red-heads, gold-heads, raven-heads. He likes the gentle almost imperceptible rocking of the ship in its ocean cradle, the inescapability of the sun and the infinite expansion of the sea. And, of course, he likes the girls in their bikinis, all curves and slopes and—
"Crrkkkkk!"
Startled, Winston looks around, nearly has a heart-attack when he almost drops his sketch-pad into the ocean, and then watches with some annoyance as a young girl, no more than eight or nine, bodily drags one of the lounge chairs up to the railing and proceeds to stand on it to look out over the edge.
"Oooh!" she says followed shortly by the requisite "Ah."
Oooh, she says again, and ... ah! Ooooh... ah! Like the vocal beat of a techno song. It irks Winston. Unfairly, of course, definitely unfairly. The girl's still innocent, still able to appreciate the primal beauty in things. Winston had been like that once. And then he'd hit puberty. With a sigh, Winston turns back to his sketch pad -- but then, from the corner of his eye -- he sees the girl tilt too far, overbalance, and fall.
Winston reacts instantly. His arm shoots out and snaps hold of the girl's wrist. Small though she is, her weight jerks his arm, and he nearly lets go. But he doesn't.
Winston's not exactly a football jock, and the girl's wrist, slick from the ocean air, begins to slip from his hold. "Help!" he shouts.
Two nearby sailors hear his cry and rush over. They grab the girl by her other arm, her clothing, and haul her up. In moments, she's back over and safe. Her mother, a pretty but mousy lady, rushes over and grabs her daughter and begins to cry. The little girl, not quite realizing her peril until now, bursts into tears as well.
One of the sailors turns to Winston. "Wow, kid. What the hell happened?"
"Dunno," says Winston. "She slipped."
"And you caught her?" The sailor offers his hand, which Winston awkwardly shakes. "Timothy Owens. Pleased to meetcha, and how'd you manage it anyway? What are you, some kind of martial artist?"
"Winston Thomas," says Winston. "No -- just an artist." And saying it, Winston realizes that in his haste he dropped his sketch-pad.
"Quick of the eye then huh?"
But Winston, not finding his sketchpad, has already exited the conversation. He leans slightly over the edge and spots his expensive moleskine, caught on a balcony several floors below. "My—" but the wind grabs it and carries it off into the sea. "Shit," says Winston.
Meanwhile, the girl's mom displays a rapid switch of emotions that would have sent any nearby psychologists screaming for some lithium. She gets angry and scolds her daughter Madeline and shakes a finger at her and cries, and then turns to Winston with a melon-eater's grin and offers effusive praise, giving him a fierce hug that crushes his lanky frame. He can't help but notice her large breasts, rare as they are on a woman -- as Winston now notices -- of oriental descent. Or, at least, half oriental, by the slanting of her face, the dusky tone of her skin.
Drawn by the commotion, a crowd begins to gather and Winston slips away. He prefers the cool silence, the distance, and always had. It's easier to observe, easier to capture motion, when you aren't a part of it. And anyway, he needed time to mourn the loss of his work.
But the story spreads -- thanks in no small part to Timothy Owens, who runs the cruise ship's little commodities shop (toilet paper, toothpaste, & t-shirts) -- and eventually Winston is recognized the ship over. Men stop him and shake his hand, and women say things like, "Bless his heart" as he walks by. Frankly, it's annoying. He's even drawn aside by the celebrity attendee, the famous Hollywood actor Borden Saint, for a quick publicity shot in the cruise-ship's 'Gardens of Allure' a little indoor pseudo garden filled with gurgling fountains and bright flowers kept in a state of perpetual bloom through a healthy amount of sun and an unhealthy amount of chemical motivation. For some stupid reason, Borden gives him a little garland of flowers, which Winston tosses over the side, as easily abandoned as Borden's fake smile, once the photo shoot is over.
Three days after saving the girl, three days after being greeted by complete strangers and people pointing him out as he's trying to relax by the pool or get a sandwich to eat, Winston finds himself sitting at the La Parisian outdoor café, drinking tea, and sketching on a small legal pad when his latest 'fan' sits down.
"Hi," she says.
"Hello," he says, without looking up. He's drawing a caricature of Borden, having great fun with giving him a chimera look: the tail of a scorpion, the wings of a bat, the snout of a hyena.
"Are you Winston?"
He sighs inwardly, but then he looks up. His fan's a girl -- his age, for once -- and actually, well, actually kind of cute. She has a lively face, full of emotion and mystery. A small nose -- she's maybe a quarter Asian, three quarters Caucasian -- and just a hint of slant to her eyes, and olive skin. A bridge of freckles across her nose. A real weakness for him. He likes freckles. Long, almost unkempt dark hair, thick and silky, and a pencil stuck behind one ear. She seems both eager, yet cautious, and Winston doesn't quite know how to interpret her look.
"Yes," says Winston. "That's me."
"Hi, I'm Luna. That was my sister you saved. I want to pay you back."
"Oh. Uh, thanks. I mean, that isn't necessary. Borden Saint gave me a hat of flowers and shook my hand. Everything a boy can ask for."
"That's nice," says Luna. "So how can I pay you back?"
"Really," says Winston. It's okay, it was --"
"I'll take you to dinner. Meet here at 6? Okay? Okay. See you then."
"Uh, okay," replies Winston but she is already gone.
#
Winston dons his best pair of jeans, a white under-shirt, a long-sleeved t-shirt with sleeves rolled up, and tries his very best not to project the aura of a virgin. Luna arrives at exactly 3 minutes to six, dressed in a green summer dress, light and airy. She hooks her arm into his and steers him down the cruise's 'board-walk' and into a Japanese-themed restaurant with a red triangular arch and red columns, etched with golden dragons.
"Hello," says Luna to the hostess. "Reservation for two under Luna."
"Right this way," says the hostess, dressed in a kimono that whispers as she walks.
She leads them to a secluded table in the back, bordered on one side with a screen depicting the earth on the back of a turtle and another side by a bamboo wall. Winston rushes to pull out the chair for Luna, which she happily takes, smoothing her dress before sitting down.
"Thank you," she says.
"Your server will be right with you," says the hostess. She hands them two menus before leaving them to their privacy.
