Ouverture – Jacob L. Barrientos

January 11, 2026

For my good friends, Ricky and Mica, and their continuous love and support.

 

I am burnt to a crisp by the time I enter the taxicab.
Waikiki, I say to the driver. He is a young Japanese man.
Where, he asks, in crisp English. What place in Waikiki. There are many parts.
Waikiki Village. The resort.
Yes. I know, he says, and takes off.
The drive is pleasant. My view from the taxicab window is sparse. Roads dotted with trash and palm trees. The sun is nearly invisible, the sky splattered with splotches of blue. I put on my sunglasses and readjust them for comfort.
Where are you from, the driver asks.
New York, I say. The city.
New York, New York, the man says, fondly.
Yes, I say.
I’ve been once. Many years ago.
Really. When.
I forget. I went with my mother. It was for my birthday. Thirteen.
Thirteen. Big one.
Exactly, he says. That’s why she took me. She wanted it to feel like a party.
I laugh and try to sound interested.
Your mother sounds lovely, I say.
He laughs at that.
What about you, kid. Why are you here.
Oh, I say. Just on vacation, I guess.
Vacation. Come on, kid, you’re what. Eighteen. Older.
Sixteen, I say. Close.
Why are you here alone, then. Parents treat you badly.
No, I say. I just wanted to get away. They’re always busy. My mother is an author. My father is a lawyer. They’re always doing something. Usually out of town.
Oh, the man says. Don’t let it get you down. You’ll learn. Paradise can fix you.
Paradise, I say. Is this really paradise.
No, he says. It’s somewhere else. But you’ll enjoy it. When you get there.

 
Day One, Afternoon

 
We arrive at the resort in no time at all. The driver helps unload my suitcase from the trunk and presses a twenty into my hand.
The drive’s on me, kid, he says. Have a good stay.
Thank you. I shake his hand.
The reception area is outdoors. It’s humid as a rainforest, the air so tight it’s hard to breathe. The sun is palpable. Stone paths reek of sunscreen. They’re lined with heaps of plants, flowers, grass, mini ponds filled with koi, and little stands selling souvenirs and drinks. A woman hands me a lei and a glass as I approach the check-in counter. The drink is alcoholic, apparently. The benefits of looking older.
I receive my key card and make my way toward the room. Crowds drift along every pathway, winding into the resort’s many crevices. I pass gardens, a lagoon, and several pools before reaching my tower. The Sunset Tower. A few feet from the beach, a few yards from the ocean. I step quickly into the lobby.
The sand-filled floor leads to the elevator. It takes a minute to arrive. When it does, I step inside. Moments later, I’m out again. I walk down the hall, unlock my door, and toss my bag onto the floor. I unpack only what I need for a shower. A couple of cigarette boxes come out, too. I set them on the nightstand.
I shower. The soap washes away the grime of life. I feel it slide down my back, my legs, into the drain. Gone. I linger a few minutes longer. Then I’m clean.
I dry off and get dressed. Baggy gray cargo shorts, a gray button-up. I slip on my wayfarers and step onto the balcony. I light a cigarette and watch the waves.

 
Day One, Evening

 
I smoke for a few hours, with no urgency to do much else. Sunset then comes quickly on the beach. Couples gather to watch it. It’s beautiful. I’ll say that much. The pinkness of the sky reflects on the water, creating a pastel rainbow of sorts. The tropical restaurant and bar below my balcony fills with patrons as the night comes alive. I enjoy the noise. I must, considering I am directly above it.
One more cigarette, I tell myself. I always listen to myself. So I light another and smoke it, watching the sunset writhe along the waves. My legs are crossed and comfortable, my body aching pleasantly.
My stomach begins to growl. I flick the cigarette onto the balcony floor and crush it beneath my foot. It dissipates into dust. I leave the balcony door open and walk inside. I keep my sunglasses on, even though it is nearly dark. I slide two cigarettes and a lighter into my pocket. In my hand, I carry a copy of The Sun Also Rises.
I head down to the lobby. It’s a quick journey, one I barely register. I drift toward the restaurant and am seated at a table for one. The table rests against a tropically themed barrier, overlooking the ocean. When the waiter arrives, I order a strong coffee. I have no interest in sleeping. When it comes, I add three packets of sweetener and thank him.
I open my novel and read while sipping the bitter coffee. I enjoy it, but my attention fades after thirty pages. I set the book down and light a cigarette. I watch people pass along the road. Old couples. Young couples. Girls of fifteen. Boys of fourteen. I play a game, inventing their lives. A lonely woman hiding in paradise. A runaway schoolgirl. A young man planning the courting of his love.
Excuse me, darling, a voice says. I glance to my side. A beautiful girl, clearly around my age, stands beside me. I nod.
I hate to bother you, darling. I really do. But could I have that extra cigarette.
I look at it, then hand it to her.
Need a light, I say.
She nods.
I light it for her.
Thank you, darling, she says.
Then she is gone.

 
Day One, Night

 
Despite my attempts to lose weight, hunger eventually consumes me. I give up on coffee alone and order a caesar salad. The service is wildly swift. I eat it in under a minute. My hunger is impalpable. The check comes to ten bucks. I pay with the money my parents gave me. I order another coffee and pay immediately.
Got a cigarette, I ask the waiter.
He hands me one.
Got a light.
He lights it and slips me a few extra cigarettes.
Thanks, I say.
I finish the coffee and exit the restaurant, tucking the book into the waistband of my shorts.
I decide to explore. One hand in my pocket, the other managing the cigarette. I walk the stone paths past the beach, then toward the lagoon filled with small fish. A Dairy Queen is packed with people. I keep going. Another tower hosts a luau high above. Farther down are pools, a surf center, another restaurant. Eventually, I circle back to the center of the resort.
The hub is crowded. Winding paths. Pools heavy with bodies. Gardens and ponds. Children feed the fish and, unintentionally, the birds. Towers loom overhead, crowding the sky. Pink and orange flowers bloom around me. My cigarette burns out. Again, I am depleted of a light.
I duck into a convenience store near the village, where the nightlife gathers. Restaurants. Shops. Music. I buy a lighter with a sensual picture of a luau dancer on it. Two dollars gone. I step outside.
Here, the Honolulu rain has begun. It is warm and sticky, clinging to skin. I jog back toward my tower and stop beneath the awning. I light another cigarette and smoke for a moment. I cannot stand still. My foot begins to tap, my eyes begin to twitch. I cup my hand over the cigarette and run for the beach.
I slip off my shoes and step into the ocean, ankle deep. I smoke with the lighter dangling above the flame. A light in the distance catches my eye. Another cigarette. The girl from earlier stands farther down the coast, smoking, watching the waves curl around her thin legs.
We smoke together, in essence. I look at her. Then at the luau dancer. Then back at her.

 
Day Two, Early Morning

 
Wake up. Wake up.
What.
Wake up, kid.
Where am I.
I am surrounded by sand. Fish nibble at my feet. My hair is coarse. I lie on my back, the water rising over me.
You’re on the beach, kid.
Oh.
Curfew for the beach is midnight.
Shit, I say. Sorry.
That’s alright, the security guard says. Get back to your room. It’s nearly three in the morning.
Yes, I say. I stand. My clothes are drenched. My lighter is still in my pocket. My cigarettes have disintegrated.
I turn around, to see if the girl is still there. I catch her outline, swaying away toward the Tropics Tower, her hips moving with the tide.
Then I turn back and enter the hotel lobby.
I haul myself into the elevator. It feels disastrously tight. I press into the corner and watch the numbers climb from zero to ten.
When it dings, I smile and step out. A couple is on the floor, kissing. His hand is hidden, and so is hers. I put on my sunglasses and walk past them quickly, careful not to disturb anything.
I shut the door behind me. The room is cold. The balcony door is wide open. Wonderful. I think of the girl from earlier. I regret giving her my cigarette. It was a swell one, too.
All of a sudden, I feel the need for another shower. I take one quickly and wash away the grime of thought, no longer the grime of life.
When I’m done, I put on a white shirt and oversized sweatpants. I take two cigarettes and a chessboard from my bag and step outside.
I play chess, serving as both players. I am winning. Unfortunately, I lose. I play a few quick rounds, then call the whole thing off. I wish the girl would come play with me.
Instead, I think of coffee, which I do not have.
Then I think of a good night’s sleep.
They never come to fruition.

 
Day Two, Morning

 
I wake with a sore throat and a crackling cough. There is liquid in my lungs, thick and sluggish. I have likely caught a small cold. I am not prone to anything especially dangerous.
Still in bed, I take a Tylenol for the headache. One doesn’t feel like enough, so I take another. Then one more. After that, I get out of bed and shower.
I go to the balcony. I read a few pages of my novel, just to get through it. Then I smoke one cigarette and watch the sun rise over the beach.
The elderly have already set up chairs and umbrellas close to the ocean. Young children run around, splashing cold water at one another. The Waikiki humidity arrives as a sultry breeze. It carries my smoke away in a straight line.
I get dressed. An oversized green button-up and khaki shorts. Sunglasses. A cigarette hangs from my lips.
I go downstairs and claim my free breakfast. It’s a bagel. No cream cheese. One slice of pineapple. It’s too sweet.
After eating, I walk to the lobby to look at tonight’s entertainment. A sign stands out front. It reads:
Movie Night at nine, tonight.
Sunset Luau at six, tonight.
Late Night Bar Party at twelve, tonight.
Shakespeare on the beach at one, the following day.
I decide against movie night. The bar party sounds redeeming. The luau sounds plain and dry. Shakespeare on the beach sounds ridiculous. I will be attending.
I speak to a woman and buy one ticket for each. Twenty dollars. Money well spent.
With nothing else to do, I walk to the shaved ice shop and buy a bowl. Cherry.
Shortly after, nausea sets in. I feel sick but don’t feel like being sick, so I ignore it and decide not to eat for the rest of the day.
I go to the beach and claim a chair and an umbrella with a hole in it. I set up a small area and light a cigarette. A large woman who arrived shortly after me looks over.
Would you mind, she asks. I have a daughter.
Yes, I would mind, I say. I was here first. You could have moved farther away.
Really. Is that so.
Yes, I do think that it is, in fact, so.
How rude, she says. Distasteful.
Mhm, I mutter.
What was that?
Beach, I say. It’s a lovely beach day.
Then I fall asleep and want to die.

 
Day Two, Afternoon

 
Mother calls. It’s one, and I’m back in my room.
Hello, she says.
Hello.
How is Hawaii.
Well. It’s fine. Lovely, really.
That’s nice. None of the workers gave you any trouble.
No. None at all.
Good. You know how they are. Always trying to get something.
Let’s not be rude.
You’re right. I shouldn’t have said that. Anyway, your father’s here.
My father is, apparently, here.
Hello, son, he says.
I greet him. There is a dry moment of silence.
How’s the room.
Wonderful, I say. I’m above a restaurant. Right in front of the ocean. I can see the sunset. I can see everything.
Great, he says. Enjoy your time in paradise.
I flinch.
Yes. Paradise.

 
Day Two, Evening

 
I shower. It’s a good shower. That’s all there is to it. This time, there’s nothing to wash away. I layer cleanliness upon perfection. My morning sickness has left.
A white short-sleeved shirt. A leather jacket. Baggy grey jeans, ones that do not outline my thighs. Sunglasses. A cigarette clinging to my lips. Pointy black shoes. Night in Hawaii is colder than expected.
I step onto the balcony and lean over. It’s just before sunset. People flock to the beach. This is the hour reserved for beauty. I want to see it. I want to feel it. So I refuse sleep again.
I run to the phone and call the restaurant. The Waikiki Lagoon.
Hello.
What can I get you.
I make a pickup order for nine thirty.
One large coffee. Creamer. Sugar. An espresso.
I give my name.
It’ll be ready on time.
Thank you.
Yes.
I light a new cigarette and toss the old one away. It’s already five thirty.
I rush out of the hotel and head toward the Tropics Tower. The air is humid, thick with chatter. I pass through the village and turn right. I join the line.
An old Chinese woman checks my ticket.
Good, she says.
The wait is brief. At the door, a bulky man hands me a lei. A dancer hands me a coconut drink. I move inside, gliding more than walking, and find a table for one with a view of the ocean and the sunset.
The sky turns pink. The venue fills.
The girl appears. The beach girl. She approaches the table beside mine in a tight black dress. Prada glasses. Dark red lipstick. She nods. I hesitate. Then I do nothing.
Everyone is seated. The show begins. Samoans dance with intensity. The women dance with grace. It is entertaining. People eat while watching. Pork. Fruit. Rice. Coconuts. I drink everything placed in front of me. Apple. Guava. I look like a toddler consuming sugar.
When the second act ends, the crowd rises to applaud. I stay seated. I have no energy to stand.
People always look for something to clap for, the girl says. She remains seated.
All they’ve done is consume time from my life. I don’t see why that deserves applause. Do you, darling?
I look at her.
She says that she is usually correct.
I cross my legs.
I ask her name.
She tells me not to ask women that. They tell you when it’s appropriate. This is not one of those times.
She stands and slips pork into a hidden pocket of her dress.
She says that if I say another word, she will skin me like a cow.
Then she leaves.
The show continues. It’s dull. Dancers hand out necklaces. Cheap souvenirs. Children cry. Mothers drink. Fathers stare too long at Hawaiian women.
I sit alone.
A table for one.

 
Day Three, Afternoon

 
I make my way to the Waikiki Village. It’s part of the resort, connected by a narrow path. Plants line both sides. It feels like a rainforest, because it is one. There are waterfalls and birds. Stone muses. Bottles of alcohol tucked into greenery.
It’s late afternoon and I haven’t eaten once today. I order ramen from a Japanese place near the back of the village, then carry it to a hidden nook along the path. The chairs are stone and cold. The table is wooden and bleak. The ramen warms me. That’s enough.
When I’m finished, I sit and smoke. I listen. A small red bird passes through. A blue one settles on bamboo. A large orange bird chirps loudly. A brown one bathes in a shallow pool. Frogs croak. Sunlight breaks through the mist.
Eventually, I am bored. The serenity overstays its welcome and begins to disgust me. I leave the path and walk through the village.
There’s a stand selling pearls. Not the pearls themselves, but the experience. You open a clam. If there’s a pearl, you keep it. Twenty dollars. Too expensive. I keep walking.
An ice cream shop connects to a souvenir store. It’s part of a chain called Waikiki General. They’re everywhere.
Inside, I go to the cigarette rack and take a box, already pulling out my ID. The girl beside me does the same. She’s the same girl. From yesterday. She opens a box, fills it with rocks, replaces it on the rack, then repeats this three more times while the elderly owner is gone. She slips the real boxes into her pockets, waves at me, and leaves.
The old man returns. I show him my altered identification. He believes it. I walk out with my cigarettes.

 
Day Three, Evening

 
I go to a bookstore, tired of Hemingway. There’s a section near the front with a sign above it. Waikiki Spotlight. Books About Our Wonderful Home. I scan the titles. One bulky novel stands out. From Here to Eternity. I pick it up and buy it. Thirty dollars, plus tax.
I make my way to the beach as sunset spreads across Waikiki. I read until the light disappears. It’s boring. But wildly entertaining. I get through one hundred pages.
Then I return to my room. I shower. I dress. I smoke on the balcony for a while. From my suitcase, I take out melatonin supplements. For once, it feels appropriate to rest. I take one. Then another. Then a last.
I fall asleep within the hour, an unlit cigarette resting between my lips.

 
Day Three, Night

 
It isn’t melatonin. It’s vitamin C. My luck. I wake an hour later. It’s midnight. All is dark. The resort is silent.
Outside, the beach is empty. The girl walks back and forth near the water. She dips her thin legs into the surf. She’s smoking. She’s saying something to herself. In a whisper.
All that is human moves me, because I am human, she says. Then she laughs. That damned poet.
She disappears, walking along the coast.
I change into something casual, put a cigarette between my lips, and promptly leave the hotel. I still have my ticket for Shakespeare on the beach. So I walk down the shore, the water nipping at my feet. Moonlight ripples across the sand. Crabs scuttle in every direction.
A tarp sits in the middle of the beach. It’s deserted. Fourteen battered books lie scattered across it. Shakespeare. Assorted. As You Like It. Romeo and Juliet. The classics. The pages are yellow. Worn and tattered. One is clearly from a dime store. A few have alcohol stains. One reeks of urine. I sit and flip through one until something catches.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day.
I stare out at the ocean. A bird screeches somewhere. A woman laughs in the distance. I’m sure there’s a man nearby to please her. For reasons I can’t explain, I begin to cry. Quietly. Enough to feel it.
I am alone. Hungry. Sitting on the sand with Sonnet 18.
And every fair from fair sometime declines.
I tear the page from the book and shove it into my pocket. I lie back in the sand and smoke, watching the waves curl in and the cruise ships drift past. I pick up another book. Romeo and Juliet. Big whoop. Guess who dies.
Footsteps approach from behind me, pressing deliberately into the sand. The girl sits beside me, lowering herself carefully. She’s wearing a red dress that outlines her thin frame.
Read me some, she says.
Any part.
You pick.
I flip pages.
Nothing in particular.
She sighs and takes the book from my hands. Watch. She opens it at random and reads.
These violent delights have violent ends,
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder.
She looks at me. See. Not so hard. You’re lovingly stupid.
Thank you.
Don’t thank me, darling. Thank Shakespeare. The goddamned poet.
She stands and walks away.
I stay a while longer, my feet in the water. A pain tugs at my chest. My head pulses. The tears burn where they dry on my skin.
A guard approaches. I stand before he speaks.
One in the morning. I know the drill.
I walk back toward the hotel, repeating it to myself.
These violent delights have violent ends.

 
Day Four, Morning

 
I wake early. Rain against the balcony. Thunder rolling offshore. Women scatter along the beach, shrieking, clutching towels and sandals. Men move slower. Children splash and laugh, delighted by the permission to ruin their clothes.
I smoke on the balcony. The palms bend. Bend again. I read another hundred pages of From Here to Eternity. By the time I stop, the storm has settled into itself. Persistent. Uninterested in ending.
A little girl screams when thunder cracks close. A boy throws sand at her. I laugh. It surprises me. It feels good, laughing, even briefly.
I take the Shakespeare page from my pocket. The corner is torn poorly. I read it again. It is beautiful. Too heavy for the morning. I put it away.
I order coffee to the room. Strong. Three sugars. Creamer.
A Japanese man delivers it. I tip him a dollar. Back on the balcony, the coffee warms my hands. The rain cools my skin. I unpack the record player and set it on the small table. I plug it in, careful with the cord. I put on the Elvis record I bought days ago. Heartbreak Hotel.
It plays. It ends. I lift the needle and start it again. Then again. Again. One more.
By the time I stop counting, it has played forty-six times. I feel full of it. Satisfied in a silly way.
A flash of red on the beach pulls my eye. She is there. Barefoot. Spinning in the rain. Her black hair whips and clings. Her limbs move freely, unashamed. When the record clicks to silence, she cups her hands and shouts up to me, telling me not to be a fool, telling me to let a girl listen to Elvis.
I laugh and start the song again.
She dances harder. She does not care that people watch. A little girl approaches her and begins to dance too. They take each other’s hands. They spin. Both smiling wide. I smoke and watch until my cigarette burns too close to my fingers.
When it ends, she looks up and calls out that every girl loves Elvis. If she does not, she is deaf. Or an uncultured whore. She laughs and walks away through the rain.
I leave the room soon after. I do not take an umbrella. The rain soaks me quickly. My shoes fill. My shirt clings to my back.
Near the fish pond, children gather in raincoats. Laughing. Pointing. I step closer, holding my cigarette against the wind. I push gently through them and see the water churning.
A small orange kitten struggles near the edge. Its stomach jerks. Its mouth opens and closes uselessly. The children laugh louder.
Idiots, I say.
I step into the pond without thinking. The water is cold and dark. I scoop the kitten up and toss my cigarette away. It grazes a child’s sleeve and slowly hisses out. I shrug off my coat and wrap the kitten tight. Its body shivers. It lets out a thin sound. I pat it slowly until its breathing plateaus.
When I climb out, the children laugh at me. My clothes are wet. My hands shake, though I tell myself it is only the biting temperature.
She stands a short distance away, smoking. Watching. She smiles. Not big.
I look down at the kitten. It blinks once.
I keep walking.

 
Day Four, Afternoon

 
The rain persists. The thunder refuses to cease.
I go to lunch at the Waikiki Lagoon. It is desolate. Empty. Just me, one waiter, and one chef lingering somewhere unseen.
Before the waiter can bring menus, the girl sits across from me. She is wearing a tight black dress, long gloves, pearls. Sunglasses crown her round head like a deliberate mistake.
May I.
May you what.
Join you, damn it.
Sure.
Wonderful.
The waiter arrives.
A steak, she says. Red. I want to hear the cow complain. If I see a spot of brown, I’ll be deeply offended.
Just a water for me. And a lighter.
She turns to look at me then. Sharp. Appraising.
You don’t eat much for someone alive.
I shrug.
Seriously, she says. Get him the same. And two wines.
Identification.
We show him our tampered cards. He studies them long enough to believe us, then leaves.
Holly, she says. That’s my name.
Holly. It fits.
It’s short for Holiday. Which is ridiculous. I’m not fucking Santa Claus. I told my mother I would be Holly or nothing.
We laugh. The sound settles strangely between us.
And you.
I tell her my name.
She considers it. Tilts her head.
I cannot tell if I dislike it or not. Which is promising.
She shakes my hand with her gloved fingers. Cool. Dry.
A pleasure.
Truly.
The food arrives. Wine poured. Steam rising from the plates.
Holly eats with commitment. Not hurried, but without hesitation. I take a bite of mine. One. Then slide the rest toward her.
She notices but says nothing. Just nods and continues.
Got to smoke.
Of course you do.
She passes me one. I light it and lean back, legs crossed.
Tell me, darling. How did you end up here.
I’m from New York. My parents were busy. They paid for my absence.
Simple.
Yes.
And the kitten.
Found him earlier. In a pond. You saw.
She pauses with her fork midair.
Poor thing.
Why are you here.
She sips her wine. Watches the rain streak the windows.
Too early.
Fair enough.
You are drinking illegally.
Yes.
Sixteen.
Me too.
She holds my gaze for a moment longer than necessary, then looks away.
Pour me more.
I do.
Thank you. Such manners. A true relic.
We talk then. About movies. About Waikiki. About nothing that matters and a few things that do.
When the storm softens, neither of us remarks on it.

 
Day Four, Night

 
She sits in the chair in the corner of my hotel room. Her legs are crossed. The kitten rests in her lap. She pets it with one hand and smokes with the other. We have been talking for hours. Since four in the afternoon.
Does the child have a name, she says.
No.
It should.
Everything needs a name.
Damn straight. So what will it be.
She studies the kitten, its small breathing body.
Scarlett. How about Scarlett.
You like Scarlett.
Yes.
What the hell. Sure.
Scarlett it is. Little baby Scarlett.
Perfect.
The storm returns outside. Rain hits the balcony railing and fills the room with a dull percussion. We sit and listen.
Let’s watch a movie, she says.
I turn on the television. Friends is playing. An old episode. Not a movie. But something.
I adore this show.
Me too.
We watch without really watching. Rain streaks the glass. The room dims. After a while she moves from the chair and lies on the opposite side of the bed. The kitten curls between us.
I am bored, she says. Shut it off.
I do.
Merci, mon ami.
I turn onto my side. She mirrors me.
This is strange, I say.
Everything is strange at first, she says. Then you get used to it.
A cycle.
Something like that.
I sigh.
Life is like riding a bicycle, she says.
I’ve never heard that quote.
Neither have I ever heard the second part, she says, smiling.
I nod.
Carpe Diem, she says. That’s why I’m here.
Carpe Diem.
She closes her eyes and turns away from me.
I follow shortly after.

 
Day Five, Morning

 
When I wake up, she is already gone.
I walk around the resort with no sleep from the night before. The sun is coming up. I smoke a good cigarette. I hear footsteps behind me. High heels. Wrong for morning.
A cigarette, she says.
I look at her.
It’s good old Holly.
So it’s a reasonable time. To speak with me.
Not exactly. I’m a chronic smoker, I like to say.
Walk with me, I say.
Cigarettes first. I haven’t had my morning smoke.
I hand her one and light it.
Swell. Let’s walk, darling.
We head toward the lagoon and stop to look at it. She is still wearing the black dress from days ago. We stand and smoke.
Pretty, I say.
Don’t be foolish. Everything is pretty.
What about an ogre.
You’re standing right beside me.
You’re calling me pretty. I laugh.
No. I’m calling you an ogre.
We walk.
Go get me some coffee, she says. Please.
I don’t argue. I walk back to the Waikiki Lagoon and order two coffees.
I return and hand her one.
Swell, she says.
We walk to the beach and stand there. People look at her. Some laugh.
Fuck yourself, mademoiselle, she says, turning toward a middle-aged woman.
What a bore, she adds. Let’s go.
We pass the pool. She looks at me.
You look terrible. The bags under your eyes are enormous.
I laugh.
I’ll fix them, I say.
No, she says. You won’t. Nobody here fixes anything. They just won’t.
I nod.
Here, she says. She hands me a bag filled with cat food and toys. For darling Scarlett.
Thank you.
She sighs. Then a beat of silence.
Well, then, she says. Goodbye, darling, she says. Thank you for the coffee. It’s far too early for all this. Another cigarette, please. For old Holly.
I give her one and light it.
Then she leaves.
I stand there alone.

 
Day Five, Afternoon

 
Alone. Feeding Scarlett. She eats like a good kitten. Scarfs it all down. She is skinny, and prefers to be pet while eating.
A note slips under the door.
I pick it up.
I would like to have another dinner at the Lagoon. Six. You had better eat this time.
Ciao Bella.
Holly.
I tuck it into my pocket and return to Scarlett. I leave her toys scattered around the room for her to find. A few soft treats, too.
I take a notepad and a pencil and flee to the beach. Unfocused, I attempt to work at the poetry I have put off for so long. A poem about Waikiki. Incomplete, at first. I work slowly. Meticulously. By sunset, it is finished. Unpolished, but complete.
Waikiki.
Simmers in the heat.
Two raised hills,
The structure of a woman’s
Plentiful thighs.
A boisterous face,
A green catharsis of relief.
A kitten meows.
Waves curl.
Skinny legs,
Wispy hair,
Flying in the wind.
Anorexic feeling,
Stifled at the root.
This is a Waikiki
To be remembered.
I fold the poem and put it in my pocket. I feel, briefly, proud.
I watch, with many others, as the sun drops into the water.
I have an hour to get ready. I run back to the room, shower, prepare food for Scarlett, and dress. A green suit. Wayfarers. A whole pack of cigarettes and the luau lighter. I smoke one on the balcony to settle myself. Sunsets always make me uneasy.
I put it out, close the door, and head for the Waikiki Lagoon.

 
Day Five, Late Evening

 
Holly is already there when I arrive. She has ordered two steaks. One for her. One for me. Several glasses sit on the table. Wine, whiskey, something clear.
You’ve already ordered, I say.
Overly ordered, perhaps, she says, smiling. Her nails are painted bright red, clashing pleasantly with her black dress.
She takes a small bottle from her purse and swallows a pill.
What are those, I ask.
SSRIs.
She offers me one. I take it. She pours the wine.
How’s darling Scarlett. Precious kitten.
She’s well. Eating properly. Likes to be pet.
Hm.
She cuts her steak.
Is it time, I ask.
Time for what.
Your story.
She sets her utensils down and looks at me. Then she lifts her glass and drains it. All of it.
Give me a minute.
Time passes. She drinks. I follow. The room loosens.
Alright, she says. Let’s see.
She eats a bite of rice.
My father was a drunk. My mother worse.
She cuts the steak carefully.
He hit me. That’s most of what I remember.
She smiles faintly.
They went out one night. To a bar. Car crash. Bad driving. It runs in the family.
She eats again.
I left. Took clothes. Jewelry. Cash. Everything that mattered. I was nobody on paper.
She sips her wine.
I figured things out. Jobs. Favors. Theft. Sleeping wherever I could. Rooms, mostly. Leave the cleaner a tip and they don’t ask questions.
She takes another pill and exhales slowly.
Carpe Diem, she says. Read books. Watch movies. Keep moving.
That’s it, she asks. My life has been the epitome of a bore. Satisfied.
I nod.
You’ve lived.
She shrugs.
You’re still not eating.
I’m not hungry.
She frowns.
Save the steak. Grind it up for Scarlett.
I smile.
We smoke. We watch each other.
Sleep in my room, I say. It’s cold. I’d feel guilty otherwise.
She looks at me for a long moment.
I’ll take the floor, I say.
She laughs softly.
Is this seizing the day, she asks. I grin.
I don’t like being alone, I say. I can’t bear it. Please.
She considers this.
No, she says. No.

 
Day Six, Morning

 
I wake up alone. No note.
I throw up in the toilet immediately. It burns. I remember nothing from the night before. Scarlett is gone. Holly must have taken her.
For once, smoking sounds disgusting. I can’t bear to light a cigarette. I get dressed and eat instead, something from the Lagoon. It’s nice. Bland. Filling enough.
She’s on the beach. Mascara dripping. Lipstick smeared. She’s petting Scarlett.
Holly, I say. Oh, Holly.
Don’t, she says.
I touch her shoulder.
Don’t fucking touch me.
I’m sorry, I say. I’m sorry.
I drag a beach chair over and sit beside her. Legs crossed. I light a cigarette. It’s time.
I wish you’d learn, she says. Men are terribly idiotic.
She puts on her sunglasses and lights her own cigarette.
As the sun comes up over Waikiki, she grazes my hand.

 
Day Six, Afternoon

 
When do you leave, Holly asks me.
Four days, I say. Or three. I leave on my tenth day. I’ve stopped counting properly.
So soon.
Terribly soon, I say. Terribly. I don’t look at her when I say it.
She smiles. The days are getting shorter and shorter. They all blend together. Like bad film spliced the wrong way.
Isn’t that right, she says. Isn’t that right.
I nod. It’s all one long afternoon. Morning keeps pretending to arrive, but it never quite does.
Tomorrow, she says. I’d like to go to the hotel casino. It’s a risk, sure. But what isn’t.
A risk of what, I ask.
A little life, she says. She says it lightly, like it doesn’t weigh anything at all.
She exhales smoke and watches it disappear. I’m going to a party tonight. Somebody’s hotel room. I don’t know whose.
Hm, I say. Were we invited.
No, she says. Which makes it all the more enticing.
I consider this. I consider her. I consider the way the ocean keeps doing the same thing over and over again and nobody calls it boring.
Sure, I say. Okay.
She smiles again, sharper this time, like she’s won something. A broken grin.

 
Day Six, Night

 
It is twelve in the morning and the party is alive. Music fills the room. Drinks fly everywhere. Men and women scream, sing, dance, feel alive. Living in general. A normal party.
Come on, Holly says. I don’t look this good for nothing.
She grabs me by the hand. I am dragged around the room, greeting everybody. Neither of us knows a single one.
Hello. Hi. Hey. Greetings. Good evening. Yes. This is my husband. Yes, of course. Swell to meet you too, darling.
We keep moving. We meet, possibly, one hundred people, crammed into two conjoined suites. The Smiths are playing through the speakers. It’s nice. She dances. I mostly watch, drink in hand, pretending not to count how long she stays just out of reach.
An hour passes. We are both drunk. Or something adjacent to it. We collapse onto a couch that smells like perfume and spilled liquor. The music throbs against my skull. I lean in and attempt to kiss her.
No, she says. No, no, no. You don’t understand.
Understand what.
Anything, she says. Anything at all.
She shifts, restless, and then goes numb. She falls asleep without fully committing to it, her body stiff even in rest. Her head settles against my arm. My hand is around her, though I do not remember placing it there.
I stay awake longer, knowing that this is it.

 
Day Seven, Morning

 
She wakes me up. I am somehow back in my room.
Holly, I say. How did you get in here.
Not important, she says. Really.
Oh. Fine then.
She sits on the edge of the bed and pulls on a black dress. She gathers her hair into a loose, careless bun, the kind that looks intentional only after the fact.
Get ready, she says. I want to go to the casino.
As do I. So I get up and dress. A normal-looking suit. Wayfarers. A silver necklace. I look like somebody who belongs nowhere in particular.
What time is it, I ask.
Still dark. Perhaps six.
Six, I say. Six. Sure.
I’m going to feed Scarlett, she says.
You are.
Yes. She feeds her.
Swell, Holly says. Let’s get going.
Must I bring anything.
Well, of course. Cash. Cigarettes. Idiot. Come on.
We leave and make our way toward the casino. Outside, the sky shows its first thin signs of morning. The air is already humid, already heavy. Old women gather near the beach, staking claims.
We each light a cigarette. Holly hooks her arm through mine for a moment, then pulls away just as quickly, as if the thought occurs too late to stop.

 
Day Seven, Afternoon

 
We stop halfway through for breakfast. She eats one croissant. I drink a cup of sweetened coffee. Pigeon feces litter the ground as a thin rain settles over the pavement. Holly feeds a pigeon. One of its feet is swollen. Huge.
Winston, she says. This pigeon’s name is Winston.
Hm, I say. Strange.
Winston, or the act of naming a pigeon.
Not sure.
We continue along the winding pathways, making a number of detours. We stop to admire the orange koi, the looming herons, and again encounter Winston. I lift an umbrella above us as the rain grows heavier. Holly refuses to step beneath it.
Hold on, she says. Let’s take a break. I’m wildly exasperated.
You don’t want to get to the casino.
I do.
Then let’s go.
No. Do you want me to stay, or do you want me to leave.
I stare at her.
Neither.
So sit down, she says.
I sit.
Have a smoke, Holly says. She hands me one, then takes it back, saying she wanted that one. She gives me another. We sit for five minutes, until the cigarettes burn down to nubs.
We resume walking in the treacherous rain. Again, for the umpteenth time, we encounter Winston.
What a darling, Holly says. What a darling.
We consider stopping for wine, then decide against it. Holly decides against it, which is terribly unfortunate. A true travesty. My tongue stays parched. My throat hoarse. My feet weak.
Are you all right, she asks.
Sure, I say. I’m all right.
But I am not. My eyes do nothing but follow Holly. They feel, too much. They want to weep.
I try to imagine something better than getting wildly drunk and falling asleep with Holly beside me. Clearly, she is imagining something else. Perhaps the bright lights of the casino. Perhaps me.

 
Day Seven, Evening

 
I sit in front of a slot machine, mindlessly watching it spin. Holly is beside me. In our hands, we hold a wad of ten-dollar bills. Holly smiles as they spin, losing everything. Eventually she wins twenty dollars.
Big whoop, she says. But I remain grateful.
She plays longer. Longer. Longer. Never stopping. We order drinks from the waitress. Two cocktails. Still, I feel weak. My muscles numb. My head carries a strange sensation. A tingle I cannot cure nor procure.
I cannot even point to the pain, because the pain is not there. It is gone. Dissipated. Meaningless.
Holly looks over at me.
Why are you so pale, she asks. Your skin looks horrid. What’s wrong with you.
Nothing, I say. Nothing. Let’s try another machine.
So we do. It is just as unlucky as the rest. But Holly stays for hours. The same machine. No variation. No joy.
Soon we are done. Terribly tired. But the feeling worsens. I break into a sweat. My eyes drift. My stomach churns. I realize, perhaps too late, that I have not checked my weight in days.
I collapse to the floor.
Holly stands over me, smoking. She smiles. I see four of her. Then it goes black.

 
Day Eight, Morning

 
I wake up in a room that is not my own. Lipstick on the nightstand. A bottle of wine. Sunglasses. Pearls.
I look to the balcony. Holly sits outside, a portable radio on the table. She is listening to How Long Has This Been Going On. I shift in the sheets. She snaps around, puts her cigarette out, and comes inside.
She sits beside me.
You scared me, she says. I was terrified.
Really, I say. Why.
She looks at me.
I—no. Never mind. I was scared.
What happened.
You haven’t eaten a fucking thing, she says. Not one thing. You starved. You idiot. Don’t you understand. You need to eat.
She grabs my stomach.
This needs food. You’ll die. You’ll die like a goddamn pig. Why won’t you eat.
I look at her.
I’m never hungry.
She laughs.
What a bore. What a life.
She smiles.
I won’t make you eat. You’ll be the one to die. Come smoke with me. It’s sunset time.
Okay, I say. Fine.

 
Day Eight, Afternoon

 
We get drunk, fall asleep, and wake up. My clothes are loose. The sheets are crumpled. Holly is getting dressed, still in the bed.
I’m sorry, she says. That shouldn’t have happened. It’s my fault.
I reassure her that it’s all right. I know it shouldn’t have happened. It was a poor decision, made with little thought. It was a spur of the moment decision, one we both enjoyed, but regret.
We go on a walk. It’s sunny. Very sunny. It burns my eyes. I’m terribly nauseous. But we keep walking. We do not stop. We walk over and over and over, until our feet burn, until our skin is burnt, until we plummet along the coast.
We sit and watch the waves.
She refuses to touch me.

 
Day Eight, Night

 
We lie in the bed, tired, filled, wanting the same thing, but knowing again, it cannot happen. It would only complicate things further, despite the pleasure.
We watch television for a while, listen to music, smoke, restless, two insomniacs. The night is soon gone, and the land becomes cold, abandoned, and barren. We two are alone, on the balcony, in robes, smoking, legs crossed, starving. I look at her face, bathed in the light of the moon, the last night I may see her. She smiles, reaches over, and rubs my hand. She does so for minutes. It is only when she stops that I notice the tears streaming down her face.

 
Day Nine, Morning

 
We wake up together. She is cold, her body cold. Her lipstick is smeared. Her hair is perfect.
She wakes fully. We say nothing. Neither of us can.
We turn on the radio and listen to the news, watching each other, observing every detail, forming a conversational portrait.
Good morning, Waikiki. Another rainy day.

 
Day Nine, Afternoon
 
We walk through the resort. For once, she latches onto my arm and does not let go. It is all bone, no flesh. She adjusts her sunglasses. Upon looking at her skinny arm, a epiphany dawns on me.
In this life, there are two things: balance and imbalance. Perfection is only achieved through the latter. That is all I can say. That is all I can feel. Holly. Her arm. Imbalance.
I grab her. I kiss her. Her body melts into mine.

 
Day Nine, Evening

 
We sit on the balcony.
I’m leaving, she says. Tonight.
Oh, I say. Where.
Honolulu. I’d like to be deep in the city. For a few nights. I need solitude. I need to be alone.
Alone, I say. Yes.
She smokes.
Don’t sleep with me tonight, I say.
Why, she says.
I don’t like waiting.
For what.
Not sure, I say. Not at all.
She sighs.
Then I should leave.
Thank you, I say. I. I appreciate it.
Do I get the number to your residence, I ask.
No, she says. You don’t need me anymore. She laughs.
She smiles. She stands, straightens her black dress. She leans into me, presses her hand to my chest, kisses my lower lip, smiles, and whispers something in my ear.
I smile as she leaves.

 
La Grande Finale

 
The Japanese man from the first day loads my luggage back into his taxicab. I hop into it. He ignites the engine, and off we drive.
So, kid, he says. How’d it go. Have a good time.
Yeah, I say. Sure did. I look out the window. My heart aches. My head is tense.
You sure. You look troubled.
I am, I say. I think.
He laughs.
Don’t speed up, he says. You’ve got from here ‘til eternity to do that.
I smile.
About paradise, he says. Did you find it.
Yes, I say. Yes, I did.
I knew you would, he says. Paradise is always there.
Yes, it is. I say.
But did you, he asks.
Did I what.
You know.
I frown, a measly frown, one that allows me to forfeit.
Yes, I say. I did.
I look out the window. I think of the question he was truly referencing. I think of the one to which I truthfully answered. They are not the same. Not even close. To Holly, I say- I did. And only Holly will ever know.
He turns on the radio. Good morning, Waikiki. Another rain falls.