After the Island

At first she was scared. It was only natural – pampered and cosseted her whole life, these past few days were probably the first time she’d done without her nursemaids and wotnot.
I sat quietly, watching her fret over the sun, the lack of water, the lack of bloody anything. It weren’t my first marooning, nor was it the first time I’d had to survive on my wits. So I sat quietly.
After I’d liberated the rum, her fear turned to anger. There were high words spoken about other things, other people. I waited for her to quiet – the only things that mattered on that island were her an’ me and what we had to hand an’ the sooner she realised that the better.
Eventually she stopped, accepted the rum I offered, helped me build a fire, taught me that bloody song. Half a bottle later she was leaning on my shoulder, thoughtful but only a few swallows from maudlin. There was nothing else to be done that night, nothing practical leastways. So I did what was best for two people stuck facing a slow drawn dea death – I created a diversion.
It wasn’t hard to coax her out of her under dress; it had hardened, caked with salt and was rubbing her pampered skin fair raw. She was hot and cross and self conscious sitting byu the fire so I coaxed her out into the surf, shedding my own clothes as we went.
The sea was cool an’ we both rather forgot her inhibitions. It wasn’t long before we were racing through the shallows, both intent on winning a rather silly game we had invented with a crab shell, an empty bottle and much flinging of seaweed. She won, I think, since I found myself tripped backwards over a log and doused rather liberally in rum. But as she straddled me lapping it off, I remember wondering if I was her prize or if perhaps I did win after all..
Following that of course, it wasn’t exactly hard labour to reverse our positions – bend her over a log and finally take her, rocking her into oblivion and holding her tight.

Between a log and a hard place, as it were.

Come morning she was quiet, subdued no doubt by the surfeitwatewater and an’ a surplus of rum. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll be the first one to admit how fond I am of the old stuff but survival’s survival an’ out here in this heat rum won’t keep us alive long. Won’t even ease the passing – I can testify to the unpleasantness of rendering yerself insensible r thr the blazing sun.

So I planted her under the most shade I could find an’ went to find something to moisten those lips.

The days passed hazily after that. Didn’t neither of us have much spark in us; her laying in the moving shade murmuring as my fingers dipped into her, circled, dipped in again, my other hand squeezing cactus leaves onto her cracked lips an’ swollen tongue.

§§§§§§§

She don’t talk much anymore, sometimes asks if a ship’s come, if I see sails. I rock inside her, squint at the horizon though I don’t really see it no more
“No love, no ships today. Perhaps tomorrow”
“Mm. Perhaps tomorrow…”