I leaned back in my seat and looked out over the bay. A dozen boats floated in the rippling, blue water. Most flew rainbow flags, which flapped lazily in the morning breeze.
“I can’t believe places like this exist.”
He sat across from me in his navy pullover and nodded. A white collar peeked through the sweater’s neckline. His black and gold Ray-Bans rested low on his nose.
He looks good.
The sliding patio door rattled open. Two fit, clean-cut men walked through, followed by the hostess. She seated them at a table behind us, handed out a pair of laminated yellow menus, and returned to the lobby.
The bridal party beside us clinked their Bloody Marys together and toasted the bride-to-be.
Our server returned with a trayful of beverages. She handed him his Diet Coke first, then thumped down my three drinks in front of me: black coffee, ice water, and a mimosa garnished with a plump orange wedge.
The trifecta.
I reached for the mimosa and enjoyed a long, fizzy sip.
/
That afternoon, we sat at the bar beneath the woven, bubble-like pendant lights. Opposite us, a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the sparkling bay. Swanky, beach-clubby music bumped from the overhead speakers. I didn’t recognize the song but found my head bobbing to it.
The woman sitting beside me doubled over, laughing at something her guy friend said. The young bartender laughed along with them and poured her another generous glass of chilled, golden wine.
“Happy birthday, girl!” her friend said, sliding the refilled wine glass toward her with two fingers. “Keep yourself hydrated.”
Across the bar, I watched a muscular man in a green crop top try to corral his friends for a picture. The group came together willingly — except the older man in the salmon shirt, who had to be pulled from the bar.
He looked like someone I would have aggressively pursued in a previous life.
As Salmon Shirt found his place for the photo, our eyes locked for longer than they probably should have.
“Another glass, love?”
The bartender’s question pulled me back to our corner of the bar. He sipped ice water from a mason jar and shimmied to the music, waiting for my answer.
I already had a head buzz, so —
“Why the hell not?” I said, shrugging, and nudged my empty glass toward him.
/
The gays are descending upon the town.
We walked along the narrow street, weaving through the growing evening crowd. Several men strolled hand in hand — but I held out.
Personally, I never figured out the whole “hold hands and still walk normally” thing.
Club music thumped from a beach bar to our right. A gaggle of younger guys flocked toward it.
A beach club right now sounded both fun and exhausting.
Maybe next time — when I’m less full of lobster quesadilla.
An elderly man walked past us wearing an “I Love Sluts” T-shirt. A man dressed from flat cap to boots in leather followed close behind.
“Discounts for leather daddies!” a green-haired drag queen shouted from across the street.
The crowd laughed and cheered.
Several people ahead of us made way for a flashy, white convertible rolling slowly down the street. We stepped onto the curb to let it pass by.
With an hour until our ferry left, we decided to stop for one last drink. Prosecco with a view sounded great.