“Hiking,” he says. “I’d be somewhere very similar to this, and I’d be hiking and taking notes on what wildflowers I found, and which migratory birds.”
I laugh. I like the image that jumps to mind of Hank in his hiking clothes and boots, tromping around a forest with a little notebook.
“Did you ever think about being a forest ranger or something like that?”
He runs his hand through the branches, looking for more fruit. “No. I chose a career that would provide a bit more advancement opportunity. I’m also quite good with numbers, and I find checking all the boxes to be satisfying. I like my passions to be just for me, not for my job.”
“Cool. That makes sense.”
I’ve got lots of my own issues with my dad and his world, but I check myself to not put those hangups on Hank. Anyway, I’m enjoying talking with him while we forage.
An energy passes between us.
My body aches, but it feels nice to be close to him, nearly naked in the last drizzles of rain. We’re both sliding a tiny bit closer with each breath, and heat flows through me.
A different kind of desire wakes up in my body. Maybe it’s primal or something, driven by the desperation of our circumstances. This clearly is neither the time or the place to think about sex, but touching Hank feels good, and I want more of it.
My heartbeat kicks up. We’re all alone on the island.
Just us.
Two men trying to survive.
Hank catches my eye, and he smiles.
The sun emerges through the trees, and bird song erupts in the forest, chirping trills and looping melodies. As it picks up, filling the air, Hank stands, steadying himself against the cliff.
“Sparrows,” he says quietly. “And goldfinch.”
I stand, joining him. “The clouds are clearing,” I say, and as I do, a much louder noise erupts from nearby, loudly grunting squawks.
I raise an eyebrow. “You swore there weren’t any island monsters.”
Hank scoffs. “There aren’t,” he says, and a moment later, the strangest black birds descend on the cliff in a flurry of movement, croaking at us. I instinctively grab Hank to steady myself, but still nearly tumble off the edge.
Their black feathers glimmer and reflect like the sequins on my favorite pants. The birds have punk hairdos, white spiky stripes on the sides of their heads, and they land on rockyperches while they thrum and gargle and honk. Some kick their legs and step from side to side; others violently flutter in place.
Hank chuckles to himself as he holds me. “It’s some kind of cormorant, I believe. And this looks like a mating ritual.”
One near to us lets out a belching, frog-like noise as it vibrates.
“Damn,” I say. “Impressive mating ritual.”
Hank and I catch eyes, and before I can resist it, I give him a flirty smile. He lets out a surprised cough, and another flock of small brown birds soars past us, disappearing into the trees as they call out and sing, drawing my gaze away. The island is coming alive under the blue sky, and sunlight reflects off the wet leaves around us.
I turn back to Hank. “The storm’s over.”
“Seems so,” he says, cormorants croaking behind him.
I try to get my head back on straight. I’ve realized Hank is hot, and my body might have bonded to him in some sort of disaster libido situation, but that’s no big deal.
We’ve got berries and a sunny sky, and it’s not like we have time to consider something like sex, let alone to act on it. I’ll just push the horny thoughts aside, and laugh about it all later.
“Time to return with our haul and build that fire,” he says, and the birds call out in agreement.
