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Show 177 But I say nothing. It is her last night at sea. She has lifted her glass, holds it a little unsteadily in the air between us. How about a toast? she says. I propose Israel; she suggests the Aurelia. We are being nice to each other. I raise my glass and we drink. It has been a long time now since I have been with a woman, and as we begin our descent down the narrow corridors and ladderways, clinging to each other like the drunken sailors we are becoming, I must admit to myself that I am looking forward to it. It will make the party bearable, knowing that afterwards we will return to my cabin and the curtain will rise on her legs. My arm is around her waist, beneath the bulky sweater; my hand on the smooth inward curve of flesh that shifts subtly as we walk. And her arm is around me, too, her fingers playing on the silky material of Paco's shirt. I can feel her touch, the sure touch of a woman who knows where she is going even when she is being led. I know where the sailors' party can be found, though inexactly. The precise place varies from night to night, but always they gather in one of the dormitory cabins at the other end of the ship, deep in the aft, near the boiler and engine rooms. With our free arms Elisa and I guard ourselves against the tilting walls, more difficult for me because of the bottle of Five Star I am carrying and must also protect. As we make our unsteady way, |
