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Whiskey Island

Allan Onik

    The flies buzzed around the marina bar as the sun began to set amid an orange hue. The locals drank rum and cokes and tourists drank margaritas-everyone was wet with sweat and humidity. Ana sipped her margarita and Gardner sipped his.
    “Do you love me?” she asked.
    “Of course I do, what kind of a question is that?”
    “You took me to this island, and all you’ve done is sit on this dock like a sick bird. The day after tomorrow we’ll be back in Pittsburgh and you’ll be back at the plant again, back to Mars.”
    “Tell you what. Just before dawn tomorrow we’ll take out one of the dinghies with a local. I’ll get a beer and we can fish. Do you like to fish sweetheart?”
    “I like you. Or I used to. Where is this place anyways?”
    “It’s wherever you want to be. I can feel the whiskey seeping into my bones like a litany of shadows, dear.”

    They went to the island club and drank, smoked hashish and listened to the music as the locals danced and sang. Under the moonlight they rested on the beach and stared at the waves. When their spirits were gone they got more and walked the sidewalks during the parade on Main Street, hugging the islanders.

    “It’ll be dawn soon, love,” she whispered in his ear. He woke up lying in the canoe with his fishing pole and bag of night crawlers.
    “And you’ll come too right?”
    “Of course.”
    They began to paddle out.
    “You know,” he said, “I can’t remember ever arriving in this place.”
    “Neither can I,” she said, “I Love you.”
    “I Love you too.”

    Soon the crest of light sparked the horizon, and he began to fish.

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