You sank your teeth into a pineapple; I lit a cigarette. The lighter flashed silver; yellow juice poured out of your mouth. A red hibiscus shuddered on your hat; I’d pinned mine in my hair. We stood grinning next to each other while our husbands snapped the picture. They told us to hurry, evening was approaching the horizon, dark clouds predicting possible rain. They rolled their eyes. Your husband shook his head, sucking on ice cubes from his piña colada. Mine drummed his fingers on the wheel, exclaiming “Women!” and mumbling something about running late for our dinner reservation. They marveled at our friendship, said how we could finish each other’s sentences, but not theirs. I kissed your juiced lips, crushed the unfinished cigarette on my heel, slammed the car door. We sat in the back, your hand squirreled under my skirt; your crystal bracelets tinkled, mine trembled to the rhythm of my breaths as you unpeeled my cravings. I gasped and my husband asked, “You okay honey?” like he always does, without waiting for a response. Yours threw an ice cube, splashing yellow juice on our faces. We squealed, your hand smoothing the hem of my skirt. We drove into the twilight. Our husbands, our best friends. You and I, something else.
