When you first get to a Mexican resort, you notice the palm trees and the ocean. If you are from someplace cold and cloudy you might notice the sun. Otherwise it's not quite the on the level of the other two: you see the sun often, even in cold, cloudy places. But while it's easy to pay attention to other things, it's there, and it's closer than you're used to, bearing down on you in ways you just can't see, can't feel. A good way to spot people on their second day in paradise is by their red tan lines. They didn't realize what the sun was doing to them as they lay on the beach. Whatever they did to protect themselves on day one just wasn't enough.
My wife Rebecca and I have been here plenty of times; we know just how much sunscreen to put on, especially that very first day, and it's on us now as we lay on a beach bed, taking in the first afternoon of this year's week at the resort. Rebecca is drinking white wine while I've started with beers, lime and salt on the rim.
It's good to be away from the kids and the jobs, I tell her, raising my glass, my head obscured by a ball cap and Ray-Bans.
"And the PTA meetings. And the housecleaning."
Then she raises her glass and sips, too. The sun seems to be as high as it's going to get all day.
It might only be a couple hours away from setting the next time I really take notice, looking up from my book and taking one headphone out to ask Rebecca when she wants to go back to the room. Usually we cool down, nap, fuck, and then get dressed for dinner, drinking water all the time, our bodies enjoying the few hours away from alcohol and rare chances at afternoon orgasms.
"Maybe soon," she says, her sunglasses big and her ball cap pulled down low. She's got a two-piece bathing suit on, something I had to campaign hard for and something she thought she needed a lot of workouts to pull off, even though she's wrong. Less than a year into her thirties, she's got a very nice body. Everyone can see it but she, though, as she sees bulges and a belly that I can't see, and doubt anyone else does either. Her black curly hair and light blue eyes make her round face striking in its beauty. Eight years into marriage I couldn't be happier that I waited before jumping into one. To be in my forties and on my first marriage is a rarity among my friends.
As I look out at the beach, a couple of guys arrange themselves on the bed next to ours, the vacant one nearest Rebecca's side. At first, I figure they are with each other, but hearing their commentary on the women out in the ocean it's quickly pretty obvious they aren't.
"Check out that rack."
"Fuck, look at that one."
"That is the right ass for that suit."
I look over at Rebecca and grimace, wondering if they realize how loud they're talking, but she's laughing a little as she grins back at me. I roll my eyes behind my shades. One of them glances over and looks at my ball cap.
"You from there," he asks, pointing at my forehead.
"Grew up there."
"That's where my friend here is from."
He's pointing back at the guy organizing pillows on their bed, a guy about my age, balding, chubby, black eyeglasses. The guy talking to me looks younger and shorter, blonde curly hair and a bunch of tattoos on one arm and about the half covered, too. He points to his chest, mentions his hometown.
Rebecca puts down her book and looks at me knowingly, then looks over at them.
"That's where we live now."
Blonde guy smiles.
"You're kidding me."
We tell them where we live and they tell us they're from a suburb kind of far away - south and east of ours maybe thirty, forty miles. I've honestly never been there, but it still sits on the weather map every night on the news and green exit signs make its name very familiar on my drive home every night.
They ask me what I do and I tell them, then they don't say much, which is what generally happens. My job is nondescript and while it pays pretty well, no one ever cares enough to ask follow-up questions. Mostly I just get cool or that's great and a quick subject change.
One of us asks what do you guys do and they kind of glance at each other and then say they are importers. Neither of us has much to ask about that, either.
We talk about the local sports teams, me mostly talking to the blonde guy. I can hear Rebecca talking about restaurants and shopping areas with the balding guy, who's lying on their bed while blonde guy is standing next to it, talking to me.
At some point he says his name is George. Rebecca and I laugh and he probably thinks we're laughing at his name or something until I tell him
my
name is George, then he understands and they both laugh, too. Rebecca says she's Rebecca and bald guy says he's Dave. George shakes hands with Rebecca, and then leans over her to shake hands with me.
Rebecca jolts and says ouch. I'm confused and George stands back up, apologizing.
"What happened," she asks. Her leg, the top of her right thigh, has a scrape on it and tiny droplets of blood are pooling along the line of the scrape, red quivering circles waiting to be either jostled and run or stay in place and firm up.
George is apologetic, pointing to his index finger.
"I got you with my fingernail. I'm so sorry."
Rebecca doesn't say anything as she rubs either side of the scrape with her hands, reluctant to touch it.
"Probably I should go put a band-aid on this," she says. I start gathering our stuff as they look on, George clearly feeling bad.
"We were leaving soon anyway," I say.
George asks if we're here all week. We are.
I'm sure we'll all see each other, someone says.
"I'll buy you a drink." That's George, and we all laugh since it's an all-inclusive.
Back at the room as I undress, Rebecca runs the cut under the tub faucet.
"I hope I don't get an infection. That guy looked kind of skeevy."
"He seemed nice enough," I say from the bedroom, climbing under the covers naked.
She walks in, only her bikini bottoms on. I glance at her breasts, the roundest naturals I remember seeing, holding their shape to this day. Not huge, not small, but like independent planets complete with equally round nipples attached to them.
"He was skeevy. They are drug dealers I think."
I laugh.
"Where do you get drug dealers?"
"Importers? What do they import?"
"I don't know. But I doubt it's drugs."
She crawls under the covers.
"It's drugs."
Her hand goes to my chest. "Why would two straight guys be at a couples' resort in Mexico?"
"Maybe they aren't straight."
She rolls her eyes.
"They're straight. The little one was checking out my chest."
I lift the covers and survey.
"It's a good chest," I say, and then smile at her before leaning down and kissing down from her shoulder to her right tit.
"Yeah, it makes no sense they're here. But they're dealing drugs somehow," she's still sleuthing, even with me sucking lightly on her. I take my lips off her nipple.
"Who cares? We don't do them. Never have."
She looks down.
"Not never."
I lean up for a second, put my hand on her left breast.
"What do you mean? Have you done drugs?"She nods.
"A little in college. Nothing major. I told you that." Outside we can here resort workers greeting guests, "hola"'s all around.
"I don't remember you saying that. Maybe."
