Double Occupancy

Croatia isn’t what I thought it would be like. In fact, this doesn’t seem like Croatia at all. We all arrived by ship at this tiny port. The ships themselves were rather small, too—not like the gargantuan cruise ships my sister talks about. People spill out from them onto the shore, and it’s way beachier than I thought it would be. It reminds me in darts of California, though it isn’t really much like California. I just don’t have anywhere else to compare it to.

I follow the flow of people along the beach and then through a tunnel that ends at a house. I guess it’s a house. More of an apartment complex, but not like one I’ve been to. I follow this little lizard that moves very fast. I joined up with him in the tunnel, and now follow him up the winding stairs to the top floor. 

This kind of thing I recognize. Maybe it’s the same all over. It’s a party. A boring party that everyone is very excited about. There’s the usual sort of characters there, all up to the same things, like always. So I turn around and leave.

A moment of fear surrounds me when I recall that I am a foreigner in a country I’ve never been to wandering around without a map or escort or even similarly ill-prepared companion. I have only this strange little lizard with me. But I do not let the fear in, so it leaves as quickly as it arrived. Me and the lizard go down the way we came in.

We bump into this guy and his kids—also Americans—and they are curious about the lizard, but also disgusted that it occasionally secretes a fluid. I say that’s just how they are, and the dad accepts it but with a kind of lingering befuddlement. I leave them and go around to the front of the house.

More party. Still boring.

So I carry on from there back the way I came, only it is night now. I lose track of my lizard friend and immediately miss them, but the feeling blows away with the night breeze.

I pass all the inhabitants of the boats who have no place to stay. It isn’t a terrible scene, like a refugee camp. It’s like Fire Island. Or more like that, anyway.

I pass them acutely aware that I am getting tired and hungry and will need a place to stay.

When I get back to the boats, I curve west of where mine is docked, and follow some folks into a nice boat toward the end of the docks.

I follow one person in particular, after the others peel away to their rooms. She is very cute.

There is a dog—presumably belonging to someone—near us. So when she reaches her room and says to come in, I’m not sure if she means me or the dog.

So I stand there in the doorway, watching as she sits down at the vanity and takes off her earrings. I can see her face in the mirror, and she’s looking at me.

I ask again if she means me or the dog—like perhaps she didn’t hear me ask it the first time.

She says this is awkward, isn’t it? And I say, It is because I don’t know if you mean me or the dog.

She says she means me, so I come inside and say, Well you could have just said that.

She undresses down to her underwear, which has an athletic kind of aesthetic, then gets into bed.

I want nothing more than to get into bed, so I do. I almost immediately fall asleep, and have to keep my eyes open and my mind awake.

I say she sounds English to me, and she says that she is. She tells me where in England, but I can’t keep it in my mind.

I ask what she does for a living and she tells me, but I think I fell asleep because I can’t recall any of the details. It has to do with accounting; I’m pretty sure.

I notice she is very fit and has a small, muscular kind of build. I feel her back gently and admire the discipline it must take to maintain a body in this way—a discipline I decidedly lack.

It occurs to me she may not want me to rub her back, so I stop. But then she says, Um, that feels nice. So I resume.

I’m feeling conflicted, but do not want to let on that I am or why, so I focus on how nice her back is to behold and to feel, and how rubbing it is making her feel good.

There comes a knock at the door—not the main entrance through which we came, but a side door I had not noticed, out to a small observation deck, from the look of it.

There are three Asian men standing there in suits, looking somewhat anxious.

Those are my colleagues, she says. Let them in please.

I am surprised and a little annoyed, but I do as she asks.

They're not going to stay here, are they? I whisper to her.

No, of course not. She says. They’re just going to their rooms.

I don’t question it further. I just let them walk through and exit by the way we came in.

They’re going to totally think I’m gay, she says to me, and I wonder what that means for her. But again, I don’t question it. I smile at her.

After they're gone, my inner conflict has my attention again, and I hedge it by saying, What do you want to know about me?

I am acutely aware, too, that I am working against my body’s inertia and the demands of sleep.

She says, What do you do?

I tell her, but she doesn’t seem all that interested. I get it. I wasn’t all that interested in accounting or whatever it is she does.

I’m also the kind of person, I say, who can’t book a hotel. Then I ask her how one even does that. And why have so many people come here without booking a hotel?

She doesn’t answer that part, but she explains I have to go to this particular residential authority and request a room. The rates are reasonable, even for me. She says she will help me do it tomorrow, which is very kind of her. I want to get my own room, but I also want to stay here with her.

I can tell she wants to make love—or at least make out. And that’s part of the problem for me: I do, too.

I rub her back and arms, hug her, smell her neck and hair. It’s a very enticing situation for me. I know what I want to do, but I also know what I should not do, and they are the same.

So I let the body win and fall asleep.

Weeks pass, and I am still staying at her place. I have almost no memory of it. It’s like memory doesn’t exist here, not anymore, not for long.

I find my party near the landing site, and they are all having a great time. One person says they can’t believe we’ve been here for twelve days. 

So it wasn’t weeks, I think, but we’re almost at two weeks. And I recall that we leave on day fourteen. This recollection accelerates my dilemma, and I want to see her again. But I also know I shouldn’t. I should let it go, let her go.

Yet I find my feet walking back that way, up the ramp to the boat, and into the room. 

It is unlocked and clean and empty.

She’s gone. I know she’s gone. I think maybe I can find her, but I know she’s gone.

Two kids arrive through the deck door and are talking about going swimming. I ignore them, but they walk with me back out the way I walked up. 

When I reach the shore again, I wander into the crowd, going where I end up next.