He continued focusing his laser gaze on me, as if I’d vaporize if he persisted long enough. “This is what you wanted to talk to her about?”
I nodded.
He sighed and raked his fingers through his hair. “Hannah was saying something, but I had my earphones on. It might’ve been this.” He motioned to my bunk bed. “I saw the breakfast card on the door, but I figured it was one of the crew fooling around and putting in an order.”
It seemed safe to come up for air, so I let the covers slide off my face.
“The top bunk is bigger,” he said, picking up his T-shirt. “You’ll be more comfortable there.”
“I like being on the bottom. You get on top.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He chuckled, and I felt my color rise as the double meaning sank in.
This time, he shut the bathroom door as he got ready for bed. It was only after he climbed into the top bunk that I finally relaxed. Slipping my hand under the pillow, I felt the cool, smooth surface of a playing card.
Goodnight, Three of Spades.
Without a window, the room was pitch dark. We had anchored, so the ship was quiet, but it wasn’t completely still. I could feel it bobbing and swaying on the water. It was a gentle, soothing motion, but I wasn’t used to it. I drifted in and out of sleep, strange dreams floating through my head. Around dawn, my stomach chimed in. The three small potatoes I had for dinner weren’t cutting it. My tummy was reminding me that it was dinner time in Chicago.
I ignored it.
It growled.
I flipped to my side.
It growled louder.
Some people will tell you that hunger is a sensation. Lies. Hunger is the mother of all emotions. Angry? Check how long it’s been since you last ate. Tired? You probably didn’t have enough to eat. Bored? You’re eating the same thing—same place, same time. Pretty much every disaster in human history can be traced back to the lack of a burrito.
I tiptoed out of the cabin and made my way to the kitchen—or to use the proper term—the galley. Why you can’t call a kitchen a kitchen on a boat beats me. I was hoping to ask one of the night crew for a snack, but no one was around. There was a plate on the counter, under a glass dome. I walked over and uncovered it, feeling a little guilty. What if it was the Captain’s snack? Or whoever was keeping watch? Maybe just a nibble? Surely, they wouldn’t miss a nibble.
I picked up the half-folded piece of paper propped against the plate, and recognized the bold, upright strokes from the note Alex had sent me at dinner:
Caramelized pineapple.
I gouged out all the eyes.
Have it with a drizzle of honey from Kythira, where the air turns purple with thyme. You’ll hear the song of bees ravishing its wild herbs and blossoms.
Some Greek yogurt to balance the flavors, and crushed maple walnuts for texture.
PS: Baby pineapples are the most adorable fruit you’ll ever see. Don’t worry. This was a full-grown adult.
I glanced at the note, then at the plate. Alex had clearly left it out for me. A peace offering for the fish fiasco? Had he received my message, loud and clear? Or had he anticipated I’d get hungry again? Either way, the dollop of yogurt looked like a white flag. It was a simple, unassembled dish—two sticky-sweet slices of pineapple in the center, the rest arranged artfully around a white plate.
I swirled my finger in the coppery, viscous honey and sucked it. It was bright and aromatic—the sweetness almost savory, unlike the honey I was used to. The aftertaste was undeniably pleasurable—like the buzz of a long-awaited kiss. Gratifying and zingy.
I ate the honey slowly with my fingers, suspended in its matrix like a bee caught in a vat of amber nectar.
Peace offering, my ass. Alex set a trap, and I fell into it.
I dipped my finger in the yogurt and sampled it with the tip of my tongue. It danced a tangy, velvet tango with the honey. How odd that a few licks of honey and yogurt managed to silence my stomach. I wasn’t ravenous for food anymore. I was ravenous for taste.
Picking up the pineapple with sticky fingers, I bit into it and savored the chewy caramel crust around its edges. Something hot and spicy jolted my taste buds. I opened my eyes and noticed flakes of chili clinging to the pineapple. It was like someone had just pulled an unexpectedly erotic move on me. I’d never had a food orgasm before, but standing in the galley that night, with moonbeams streaming through the window, my taste buds quivered in a state of heightened arousal. A few more bites and I slammed both palms on the counter while my mouth silently screamed,Yes. Yesss. YESSS.
I hadn’t even gotten to Alex’s nuts. His maple walnuts, that is. But I was sated and full and happy and loopy. I stumbled back to my cabin and fell into the most restful sleep I’d had in months.
Iwoke up to a high, green island with picturesque bays and fruit trees running down to the sea. Kea—the first of the Cyclades islands on our itinerary. Southeast of Athens, the Cyclades were a cluster of islands scattered across the azure waters of the Aegean Sea.
