At just about the exact moment she lifted the bowl to her lips - I believe that is when I fell in love.
Or lost my mind.
It can be difficult to tell.
She held the coconut milk against her lips for an instant before her face broke into a grin, her violet eyes glinting in the sunlight, her cheeks rising into perfect dimples, her nose wrinkling. The bowl tapped against her perfect teeth. She held it away from her as she tried to recollect herself, closing her eyes against the sunbeams before trying again. This time, she takes a small taste and holds it in her mouth. At the corner of her lips, the pale and watery juice drooled out. She dragged her arm across her pretty face to wipe it away, even as I prayed silently she'd leave it there. She swallowed, then smiled at me, squinting against the brightness of the light through the palm trees.
Our guide took the bowl from her, and there was a general sound of appreciation from the gathering. Everyone in the circle began to turn to each other, laughing and chatting or otherwise noting the beautiful handiwork of the bowl. Some of them, more subtly, noting beauty of the girl.
Her eyes still glinted, and she was looking right at me. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't have looked away.
*
That night, at the hostel, we met again under the palm frond awning of the bar. She sits and orders us both rum and cokes. The air was humid, and people were sitting in chairs with bamboo legs fanning themselves as they drink and laugh. I could see one triangular blue sun-shaped tattoo on her pale thigh peeking out of her cut-off shorts. As I watched her sip her drink, a bead of sweat tumbled from her neck and down her bare, sun-tanned chest and between her breasts.
We talked for a while as the liquor settled into us both. I learned her name, and she asked me where I'm from. I didn't know how to reply: I've been wandering for so long that I'm not really from anywhere, I told her. She said I was lucky. That she would love to be able to wander just like me. And I told her, you can - anyone can.
She didn't reply to that, although it looked as though she wanted to.
Before long, we were alone in the hostel bar. The others had gone for walks along the shore or other night-time activities of tourists. Or perhaps they had heard the way we were laughing, seen the way she touched my thigh when I fumbled my words, felt the pulsing heat coming in waves from off of our bodies and our spirits and had decided, biting the insides of their cheeks, to give us the room. Even the bartender went missing. I lifted my empty rattling glass to the soft yellow lights and was about to ask her if she wanted another, but when I turned, she was moving towards me with the agility of a jungle cat. She kissed me, softly at first, just of center with my lips - she tasted as sweet as cola, smelled like saltwater, suntan lotion, and wet heat. My lips parted and our tongues met. I felt her hand on the inside of my thigh.
Any thought of another drink left me at that moment. My mind in that moment was an empty glass, then filled to the brim with rose water.
When, at last, we pulled away from each other and the scent of tropical flowers began to overtake the scent of her, I blinked stupidly and opened my eyes. She was grinning, tilting her head at me. She asked if we could go back to my room.
Or perhaps she didn't even ask. Perhaps I heard her say it in my mind. Already, I felt as though we'd known each other for years. I felt as though I were the tree she'd taken shelter under from a monsoon. As the sheets of passion cascaded over me and I was windswept in the torrent, she stood safely beneath with a knowingly smile on her lips.
So we went back to my room, a simple accomodation with dim lighting and eucalyptis furniture. She took me by my shirt and pulled me towards her. We kissed at the doorway as the door closed.
I could feel myself spilling over, flooded with her presence, her smell, the sound of her breaths. I heard the soft rasp of her shirt lifting off her midsection and I looked down, seeing the flatness of her belly, the perfect shape of her navel, the evenness of her tan. I put my hand to her bare skin and felt the smooth tension there, felt her expel air on the inside of my neck. I was intoxicated, not by the rum, but by the smell of her and her longing. I kissed the meeting of her neck and shoulder, and she sighed.
We'd been talking, whispering, speaking nothings to each other. I don't remember what I was saying, or how she replied. I remember her airy laugh and my low tone - nothing else.
Then, I heard her voice in my ear. I knew in that moment what it would be like to be a seashell and have the thoughts of some seaside wanderer whispered into my folds - I was so helpless to reply, crystaline, as unmoving as a conch. But I'll remember those words to the day that I die.
"I want your cum."
Even though I had been slackened by the liquor just a moment ago, I was now fully erect. Throbbing, even. I think that I groaned.
She laughed at me. Her laugh was like a warm night breeze through parted curtains.
My room at the hostel was sparse. Wooden floors, grayed by time and salt-water air, a blue circular rug, a simple but comfortable bed done up with lime green comforters. A nightstand with my journal on it, beside a paper lamp. I gripped her by her thighs and lifted her towards the edge of the bamboo bedframe.
