time since I’ve been in love.
I feel my pace slowing down and then I begin to walk because I am wondering when was the last time I actually said “I love you” to a man and hell, when was the last time someone said it to me? It’s been a few years is all I know and although it doesn’t make me sad, it causes me to wonder what it might be like to feel it again because I really can’t remember right this minute.
By the time I get back to the beach at my hotel the water activities have started and the beach is much more populated. People are dragging boats or getting in boats and there is someone parasailing right over us. Jet Skiers are speeding by, causing turbulent waves which folks seem to love, diving into the plume in this otherwise calm bay, and then one of several Jamaican men says to me, “No snorkeling today for you, mon?”
“Not right now,” I say.
“Jogging were you?”
“Yep.”
“Keeps you in good shape?”
“I’m trying.”
“You looking good, girl.”
“Thank you,” I say and continue walking.
“Your husband’s a lucky man,” another says and I smile as I get a towel and dry my face and throw it around my neck and walk into the huge dining room which is now almost full. I find an empty table and set my Walkman and sunglasses on top and go over to the buffet to get myself some breakfast.
I don’t want to be greedy but boy it’s hard to know what to choose from since there’s so much of everything, and I decide on Belgian waffles and fresh sliced mango. I go back to my seat, smiling hellos at some of the folks from the van last night and a few other friendlies. As I begin to slice my waffles I suddenly smell the most intoxicating scent: a fresh clean citrusy but almost sweet aroma and I can’t tell which direction it’s coming from but out of the corner of my eye to my left I see a young black man sliding his chair under the next table. He is wearing a white baseball cap and some kind of T-shirt and boy are his arms long and hairy and a really deep gold and that’s all I can see but he looks like one of those rappers I’ve seen on MTV but I can’t put my finger on which one. I guess he feels me looking at him because he immediately turns to acknowledge me and smiles and nods his head at the same time and says, “Hello,” and that’s when I bend over and say, “Are you a rapper?”
He blushes and then a broad grin spreads over his handsome face as if I’ve given him a compliment he doesn’t deserve. “No,” he says in a soft Jamaican accent and he sort of leans in my direction and that’s when I notice that he is entirely too young to be so fine and sexy. His eyebrows are thick and his eyes look Asian and his cheekbones are chiseled and those beautiful thick lips he is using to say “What rapper?” are making it difficult—I can’t really take my eyes off how perfect they are—but I hear myself say, “I don’t know, you just look like one,” and it seems as if his eyes sort of close for a second or two and he hunches his shoulders as if to apologize and says, “I don’t rap.”
I turn back to the waffles. A young waiter comes to pour more coffee in my cup and I am adding two packages of sugar when I feel someone tap me on the shoulder. When I turn to face him I smell that scent again—now it’s more like an ocean breeze with a mist of ruby red grapefruit juice—and I realize it is coming from him. “Are you dining alone?” he asks.
“Yes, I am,” I say.
“Would you mind if I joined you?”
Well, how sweet, I think, and say, “No, I don’t mind.”
He pushes his chair back and stands, picking up his plate, and when I look at him I almost have a stroke. He is wearing baggy brown shorts and has to be at least six three or four and he is lean but his shoulders are wide broad and as he walks toward my table all I can think is Lord Lord Lord some young girl is gonna get lucky as I don’t know what if she can snag you. He sits down right across
I feel my pace slowing down and then I begin to walk because I am wondering when was the last time I actually said “I love you” to a man and hell, when was the last time someone said it to me? It’s been a few years is all I know and although it doesn’t make me sad, it causes me to wonder what it might be like to feel it again because I really can’t remember right this minute.
By the time I get back to the beach at my hotel the water activities have started and the beach is much more populated. People are dragging boats or getting in boats and there is someone parasailing right over us. Jet Skiers are speeding by, causing turbulent waves which folks seem to love, diving into the plume in this otherwise calm bay, and then one of several Jamaican men says to me, “No snorkeling today for you, mon?”
“Not right now,” I say.
“Jogging were you?”
“Yep.”
“Keeps you in good shape?”
“I’m trying.”
“You looking good, girl.”
“Thank you,” I say and continue walking.
“Your husband’s a lucky man,” another says and I smile as I get a towel and dry my face and throw it around my neck and walk into the huge dining room which is now almost full. I find an empty table and set my Walkman and sunglasses on top and go over to the buffet to get myself some breakfast.
I don’t want to be greedy but boy it’s hard to know what to choose from since there’s so much of everything, and I decide on Belgian waffles and fresh sliced mango. I go back to my seat, smiling hellos at some of the folks from the van last night and a few other friendlies. As I begin to slice my waffles I suddenly smell the most intoxicating scent: a fresh clean citrusy but almost sweet aroma and I can’t tell which direction it’s coming from but out of the corner of my eye to my left I see a young black man sliding his chair under the next table. He is wearing a white baseball cap and some kind of T-shirt and boy are his arms long and hairy and a really deep gold and that’s all I can see but he looks like one of those rappers I’ve seen on MTV but I can’t put my finger on which one. I guess he feels me looking at him because he immediately turns to acknowledge me and smiles and nods his head at the same time and says, “Hello,” and that’s when I bend over and say, “Are you a rapper?”
He blushes and then a broad grin spreads over his handsome face as if I’ve given him a compliment he doesn’t deserve. “No,” he says in a soft Jamaican accent and he sort of leans in my direction and that’s when I notice that he is entirely too young to be so fine and sexy. His eyebrows are thick and his eyes look Asian and his cheekbones are chiseled and those beautiful thick lips he is using to say “What rapper?” are making it difficult—I can’t really take my eyes off how perfect they are—but I hear myself say, “I don’t know, you just look like one,” and it seems as if his eyes sort of close for a second or two and he hunches his shoulders as if to apologize and says, “I don’t rap.”
I turn back to the waffles. A young waiter comes to pour more coffee in my cup and I am adding two packages of sugar when I feel someone tap me on the shoulder. When I turn to face him I smell that scent again—now it’s more like an ocean breeze with a mist of ruby red grapefruit juice—and I realize it is coming from him. “Are you dining alone?” he asks.
“Yes, I am,” I say.
“Would you mind if I joined you?”
Well, how sweet, I think, and say, “No, I don’t mind.”
He pushes his chair back and stands, picking up his plate, and when I look at him I almost have a stroke. He is wearing baggy brown shorts and has to be at least six three or four and he is lean but his shoulders are wide broad and as he walks toward my table all I can think is Lord Lord Lord some young girl is gonna get lucky as I don’t know what if she can snag you. He sits down right across
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