Swash

As in:

The way to escape the sharpened claws of the storm-petrels was to let go of the dream.

Ben was reluctant to do this. In the warm swash of salt water and time before the dream became unpleasant, it had been very pleasant on a completely sensual and ethereal level, such that he wanted to hold onto it, like a child clinging defiantly to the string for a red, helium-filled balloon. But the petrels and the albatross that sounded like Danny DeVito put an end to that.

Solly. How to dispose of Solly?

That’s what Charisse was thinking when Ben began navigating toward an erogenous zone and she gently intercepted his hand and clutched it against a less intriguing part of her abdomen.

In south Florida 2 p.m. could easily be construed as 2:45, or later, but it didn’t solve her problem of not wanting even to show up at the marina.

He’d given her his cell phone number. She would rise, put on her robe, drink a large glass of water. And call him.

She was going to lie, but the lie involving Ben’s already fictitious oral surgery, and how it had not gone as well as hoped, was just too much trouble. Lies, for her, weren’t like Legos, and she knew how they could fall all over themselves once you started piling them up.

“I get seasick,” she said.

“It’s calming down,” he said.

“I’ll still get sick,” she said.

“But I’ve got more scampi than I can eat.”

“How fresh is it?” she asked.

“The little bastards just climbed in over the stern. I drowned them in lemon juice and cocktail sauce.”

She thought for a moment, placed her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone, and sighed.

“Okay,” she said, “but can we only do an hour or two? I don’t think Benny slept very well last night, you know, the surgery and all.”

“Benny,” Solly said back to her. “Well, you know if he’s not up for it, just let him hang out at the hotel.”

“Hmmm,” she said. “Let me ask him when he gets out of the shower.”

“But you’re coming, right?” Solly sought to clarify.

“Yeah,” she said uncertainly. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”