Chapter 3: The White String Bikini

Monday arrived like a gift.

The curtains glowed, backlit by a sun that hadn’t yet learned to be cruel.

Joe’s eyes opened before the alarm. No headache. No cottonmouth. Just the clean buzz of a good night’s sleep.

He showered fast, dressed in swim trunks and a loose tank top, and made it to the buffet by seven-thirty.

The terrace was nearly empty. He ate eggs, fruit, a single churro dusted with cinnamon.

The coffee was dark and strong.

By eight-fifteen, his feet hit the sand.

The beach stretched endlessly in both directions, the tide pulling at the shore in long, rhythmic sighs. He set a pace, arms swinging, breath steady.

The first mile felt like waking up.

The second mile burned away the last traces of whiskey from the night before.

Women dotted the shoreline like scattered jewels. A group of college girls in neon bikinis, laughing as they chased the waves. A tall woman with dark skin and silver-tipped braids, walking alone, her hips swaying with each step. A pair of

middle-aged friends, comfortable in their skin, chatting in rapid Spanish.

Joe let his eyes wander. He was a man on vacation. It was allowed.

The third mile brought him past a cluster of topless sunbathers, European by the look of them, their bodies tanned and unselfconscious.

He kept his gaze forward, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

By the fourth mile, the sun had climbed higher. Sweat slicked his chest and back. His legs hummed with the effort. He passed a woman in a string bikini that was barely a suggestion, the ties so thin they looked like dental floss.

He smiled to himself. Whoever invented this was a genius.

The fifth mile passed in a haze of salt and heat. His mind emptied. There was only the rhythm of his feet, the hiss of the waves, the occasional call of a seabird.

He turned back at the sixth mile marker, a rocky outcropping covered in barnacles.

The return trip was slower, his pace dropping as the sun reached its zenith.

By the time he reached the resort’s stretch of beach, his mouth felt like sandpaper.

It must have been one o’clock before he found a lounger near the pool’s midpoint. He dropped his towel, kicked off his sandals, took off his shirt, and walked straight for the water.