“That sounded like a yes wearing a golf hat.”
My hand went automatically to the brim.
“It’s not a golf hat.”
“There’s a golf course logo on it.”
“I’m wearing it ironically.”
“Sure, Just Annie.”
“I’m not a water person.”
“You’re on an island.”
“I enjoy water from a respectful distance. Preferably with a drink in my hand and no fish judging me.”
“That can be arranged before or after the dive. During is frowned upon.”
Ellie pulled a slightly damp business card from the pocket of her wetsuit and slid it across the table.
REEF RASCAL DIVE CO.
ELLIE PARKER
PADI INSTRUCTOR
Below her name, someone had drawn a tiny shark with eyelashes.
“I do private beginner sessions,” she said. “Less pressure. No group of honeymooners asking whether the oxygen tanks are full of oxygen.”
“They aren’t?”
“They’re full of air. People get defensive.”
I picked up the card.
“Private lessons sound expensive.”
“For you? Very.”
“Because I stole your table?”
“Because you insulted my seating rights and doubted the emotional complexity of fish.”
“I never doubted the fish. I’m afraid of their opinions.”
“That’s healthy. We can work with that.”
The song ended, replaced by something involving a ukulele and a man who seemed extremely pleased about owning no shoes.
Ellie drained the last of her coffee and stood.
“My eight-thirty is probably putting his fins on the wrong feet by now. I should go prevent a felony against footwear.”
“Is that common?”
“You’d be surprised.”
