“I don’t need your sarcasm.”
I sigh. She’s right. Fighting isn’t helpful.
“I’m hungry,” I say in a nicer tone. “Do you want to find something for breakfast? Then we can procure more respectable attire and go to the embassies to apply for our documents.”
“Fine. Toss me my clothes.”
I hand her her dress and bikini from yesterday.
Hope wrinkles her nose at she takes them. “Gross. My dress smells like mildew and BO.”
It does, but I wasn’t going to mention it.
She wriggles around under the covers to put it on anyway.
Despite myself, I’m struck with sadness by this. We so recently reveled in each other’s naked bodies, and now it’s all we can do to have a civil conversation. It’s excruciating to be reminded, in retrospect, how deeply I cared for her.
We walk out into the steamy morning. There’s a cafe down the street, and I am unable to resist ordering a classic Bahamian dish called fire engine, which is effectively corned beef hash on grits smothered in hot sauce. It burns my throat pleasantly in a way that distracts me from the pall of disappointment and frustration with Hope. I suspect it will be the best part of my day.
There’s a tourist shop on the street that’s open by the time we finish breakfast. Hope grabs a long, white sleeveless dress, and I get shorts and a T-shirt that says “CONCH KING, Nassau, Bahamas.”
“Very tasteful,” Hope says, when I hand it to her to pay. “Your consulate will be so happy to claim you.”
“If they even believe who I am,” I say, giving voice to my nagging concern that I will have no way of proving my identity and be stuck on this island forever.
“Biometrics,” Hope says.
“Let’s hope the retina scanner is working.”
We pop into a small supermarket for deodorant and toothpaste, which is when something very bad happens.
My guts turn over with a sharp and sudden pang that can presage only one thing.
Sweat immediately beads on my forehead. I mentally calculate how far we are from the hotel.
Too far.
“Um, sorry,” I say. “I need the loo.”
“We’re five minutes from the hotel,” Hope says.
“Sorry,” I say, already dashing toward the cafe responsible for the situation in my bowels.
“Where are the toilets?” I ask the woman behind the counter.
She points to a door by the soda fountain.
I run there and attempt to pull it open, but it’s occupied. My stomach roils. I pound on the door. No one answers. I pound again.
Finally, a woman with a little boy comes out and gives me a dirty look.
I don’t have time to apologize. I lock the door and do my unpleasant business.
Twelve full minutes of unpleasant business.
I am not one to be embarrassed by the natural functions of my body. But under these circumstances, I want, just a bit, to die.
I wash my hands and splash water on my face, which has gone pale and clammy. I still don’t feel entirely right.
