I am, alas, not surprised to wake up alone. While the last two days have all but evaporated into the realm of fantasy, the memory of my thick, sweaty, white-stockinged dancing machine hurrying down the dock and stumbling onto the boat that would shuttle him back to his ship and away from me is all too crystal clear. I passed more of my Christmas evening than I shall admit in the straight-backed red chair, finishing the seventeen-dollar bottle of three-dollar wine that I bought while they were closing the souvenir shop, picking at the very sad remains of those stupid sandwiches, willing the cruise ship to weigh anchor and move along so I could quit watching for Cole to come up the hill. It was still in port when I went to bed, but it’s gone now. I imagine I can pick it out in the distant qu
