Waiting for a hurricane as he sucks on my toes. The calm before the storm they keep saying on the television. In a moment the primal forces of nature will emerge from Chaos itself and tear fabric seems through the sky, force themselves upon us, have their way with us in this resort fortress on exposed shoreline. About to be shattered like a ceramic bank with the last nickel in. He sucks my toes and takes his silent time. Waiting for the hurricane.

Windows boarded up. Handwritten signs in store fronts something about 'closed early' - no notice to reopen. Last flight out has come and gone, and all of his cast and crew members already chartered back to Los Angeles, are safe and sound in southern California where someone drives down Sunset Blvd in their tricked out sled, someone scores a corporate record deal, someone sloppy drunk leaves with a total stranger reeking of clove cigarettes . But fatal romance, drastic demonstrations of passion and a devilish fascination with adventure called my Lover and I to stay in Lucaya, sharing suddenly private moments in this island ghost town, with unspoken commitments in each stroke of the hair, each loaded glance across the room, each careful petting like it was our last. Knowing it will not be. We've got forever to give to receive - what's the difference anyway - when a black cloud devours sunset before your very eyes. Confirming; we've got forever.

I will take him again and again and again. Facing the ceiling, I will cradle his head against my breast. I will make elaborate gestures, layered in Everyland's archetype, and create a ritual that honors every act of love and pleasure ever imagined, suggested or acted upon. His thick forearms flex in slow motion. His rough hand traces the curve of my upper thigh. There is nothing to do but make love out of boredom. We are obsessive thoughts repeating ourselves until comfort. We are moths, insane for the light. We are sipping kukicha tea and haven't bothered to dress. The wind has picked up outside the glass window and there is nothing, absolutely suspiciously nothing, to do. We are so alive.

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