Vacation Wars

by Meghan Quinn

“You like chest hair.” Lois shrugs and picks up a piece of croissant off my plate. “No, I don’t. Well, I mean, I don’t mind it. I can go either way, but not when the man has a bird’s nest under his chin. Did you see the spinach that was caught up in it? There was actual spinach in his chest hair, green spinach.”

When our eyes meet, a devilish grin spreads across his face right before he presses his hands to the edge of the pool and begins the process of lifting his body up and out. Yes, I said “process” because that’s exactly what it is. This isn’t a simple lift and he’s out. Ohhh, no. This is a spectacle. There are stages; there is fanfare; somewhere in the distance Ginuwine is singing about jumping on his pony.

Red, wet bathing suit fabric clings to his every contour, defining him in a way that makes me imagine him on a stage while I sit below him, a wad of ones in hand ready to slip into the waistband of his—