“A software engineer. You know, a geeky girl who hides behind lines of code while wearing sweatpants covered with old mustard stains and munching on Twizzlers.” My fingers stiffened as I said those words out loud. I wasn’t always that girl. I used to wear stylish power suits and leather pumps, had a corner office overlooking Biscayne Bay, and was the lead developer, driving my career forward ever since college graduation before everything shattered.
“Did they teach you how to decipher messages at school?” he said, sounding genuinely curious. It was just a couple of puzzles. Not that big of a deal.
The black cat rubbed against my leg, and I reached out to scratch his head. “I think writing code is like working with a jigsaw puzzle. Long before my fingers touch a keyboard, I must imagine the big picture. I work with the data I have and spend time carefully looking at each small or big part of the project, figuring out how they all fit together.”
“Interesting.” Hunter picked up the magazine, bringing my attention to his tattoo. Yesterday, I wasn’t in a state to notice all the details. Most people had tattoos to tell a story of their experience or struggle or to honor someone. Of course, some (Tina) get a poo emoji tattoo on their left buttock during spring break in Panama Beach. Hunter didn’t strike me as someone who would get a tattoo because his favorite phrase was “little shit.” There was a story to his tattoo. And my guess was it was a tragic one.
“May I see your tattoo?” I asked quietly. He hesitated, but then stretched his arm out. I took in the fine details of a three-masted ship sailing across the nautical map with multiple islands. Near his wrist was an ornate wind rose, and above it, closer to the inner part of his arm, was a beautiful compass with roman numerals, one to twelve, on the outer bezel, and degrees 0 to 360 in regular numbers edged into the inner rim. Four fine arrows shot down along the longitude lines.
“It’s remarkable.” I looked up at Hunter and smiled. “Were you in the Navy?”
Hunter’s gaze rested on me, and his eyes had a gentleness that hadn’t been there before, but then he blinked, and it was gone. “No, I wasn’t. I just love the look of the three-masted barque. For the rest of it the tattoo artist used her imagination.”
I tore my eyes off Hunter’s face and traced the digits above the longest arrow as if my hand had a mind of its own, finding an excuse to make contact with him. “What are these numbers?”
“Just numbers.” Hunter flexed his forearm, making his muscles dance, then broke away from my touch, got up and collected our plates and his cup. I got a feeling he knew the meaning behind the numbers but didn’t want to talk about it. That was fine, I could let it go.
“When I return home,” I said, “I should get the shape of this island, or its coordinates tattooed as a reminder of my mistake.” I gave a short, nervous laugh.
Hunter furrowed his eyebrows and opened his mouth as if to say something but then closed it and walked away to where water ran out of a barrel. On his way, he grabbed the pan off the stove and placed it all into a makeshift sink made from a small, galvanized tub. He probably didn’t want a stranger to have his home location on their ass.
“I’m joking.” If I had to pick one as a reminder, it would be theBloody Mary.
Tuesday sat down near the tub, his tail wrapping around his butt, and then, instead of lapping up water that ran out and down to a stream, he tapped it with his paw and licked drops off his pads. Then he repeated the motion again and again.
“That’s an odd way to drink.” I gestured with my cup at the cat.
“Tuesday is an oddball. He likes most fruits and enjoys swimming in the ocean.”
“Really?”
“When the waves are calm, of course. It started as him trying to catch fish and then, I guess he liked playing in the water.”
My eyes flickered to the note he wrote to me. “Is he accompanying you in the morning for your swims?”
Hunter shook his head, smiling.
My scalp prickled again, and I scratched it. A bamboo halved pipe that ran to the barrel connected to a bigger channel that disappeared into the vegetation. Hunter had running water and didn’t appear as filthy as I was. “Is there a place I can take a bath? I feel like I’m starting to stink.”
He wrinkled his nose. “I didn’t want to say anything.” Then he smiled. “Just kidding. There is a waterfall.”
“You have some soap?”
“I have more than that. Come on. I’ll show you where everything is.”
“How about you get stuff while I run to the bathroom?” I pointed over my shoulder.
“Need help finding it?”
“I think I can manage.”
A few minutes later, we regrouped in the kitchen again. Hunter handed me a towel with a toothbrush, a tube of cinnamon-flavored toothpaste(gross), a pure coconut oil bar of soap(the worst kind of scent),and(just kill me now)coconut shampoo. Oh, for crying out loud. Was there anything here not made from this awful turd-colored fruit?
“These are yours. I suggest using it sparingly.” He added a folded light blue T-shirt and brown cargo shorts, pulled a piece of twine from his pocket, and placed it onto the pile in my arms. “For you to tie up the shorts.”
A smile pulled my lips at his thoughtfulness. “I’m not sure if blue is my color, but it will do.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled, and he motioned to the left. “It’s this way.”
