How to Honeymoon Alone

by Olivia Hayle

“Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten your seven years of karate. Or your can of pepper spray. How did you get that through customs?” “Not important,” I say. It’s easy to smuggle all kinds of things when they’re fictional.

The grown man in front of me rolls his eyes. “Right. And you know karate, too, don’t you?” “Black belt,” I lie brightly.

I lift my rum punch in the air. It takes him, this stranger in front of me, a moment to follow suit. All I know of him is his name, his job, and that he saves lizards if they’re trapped. But it’s a good start. “To honeymooning alone,” I say. He shakes his head like he can’t believe I just said that, but touches his glass to mine. “To honeymooning alone.”

“Do you still fish up there?” “No, I haven’t for years. I’m almost as much of a novice now as you.” “Well, you missed the part about falling in,” I say. “That’s key.” “Oh, is it?” “Yeah. To celebrate a successful catch, you know. It’s a ritual to give thanks to the ocean. But don’t worry,” I say and reach out to pat his arm. His skin is warm beneath my fingers. “You’ll get there eventually.” He raises an eyebrow. “Thank you for the encouragement.” “Anytime.”

“Perhaps I’m different back home,” he says. “But aren’t you?” I consider the question. “Yes. I usually wear more clothes.”