His drink arrives, multi-colored paper umbrella included. He requests another drink from a waitress in a burgundy shirt and gives her a wink. God, she looks like Susan. Her hair is shorter and lighter, but it’s close. After finishing his second drink, he orders another. Once the waitress is gone, he gets up — already feeling the alcohol affecting his balance — and walks over to the small free-standing chalkboard listing the events for the evening. After taking a cursory glance he discovers, not much to his surprise, that none of the evening activities even remotely stirs his interest — Lecture: Man & the origin of aggressive behavior (Jungle Room); Museum tours every 30 minutes; Panel: Connecting the past with the present through Anthropology (Caribbean Room). What the hell is Janice trying to do to me? It’s like The Jetson’s: Jane, get me off this crazy thing! Goddamned professors and lecturers — what a boring crowd of people. I’d rather have the idiots I deal with at work than these highbrow dinosaurs.
He returns to his seat to find a fresh drink with the napkin sitting next to his glass instead of under it. He sits down, and while taking an enormous gulp he picks up the napkin. He flips it over and isn’t surprised to see a name, a suite number, and a time. Smooth, Xavier. Was this the waitress’s doing? Or is there someone watching me? His inebriation dulls his usual sense of paranoia and by the time he finishes his third drink he has decided to give credit to his good looks for the offer and order another. If I’m gonna do this I might as well make it worth my while. A man in his late thirties sits at the empty table next to Xavier and orders an apple Martini.
“What a girly drink,” Xavier snickers.
“Oh, and I suppose you’re proud that you can pass that kind of judgment?” The man replies quickly.
“Yeah, well,” Xavier says as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small plastic case and removes the remaining pill, “it’s not my fault that you don’t drink like a man.” He drops the pill nonchalantly into his mouth and takes a swig of his drink. “I just wanted to inform you of your womanly taste in alcohol.”
“At least my drink doesn’t come with an umbrella.” The man smirks at Xavier, undoubtedly thinking he has won the battle of wits. “Alcoholic,” the man adds under his breath, but Xavier has already begun to ignore the newcomer because the prospect of feminine attention is still burning in his mind. He looks around the dining area, scanning the crowded tables occupied by quiet intellectuals in their late forties for his waitress. The alcohol has begun to affect him and his head feels fuzzy from the buzz he has acquired. Where the fuck is she? And why the fuck is it so damn dark in here? I can’t see a goddamn thing.
As he thinks this a waiter in a green shirt pops up on his left.
“Excuse me sir, can I get you another drink?” The waiter asks politely.
“Yeah,” Xavier says shortly, irritated that his previous server was replaced by a man. “Where did my waitress go?”
“I don’t know, sir. I just came back from my break so I’m coming around checking on everyone. What are you drinking, sir?”
“Long Island Iced Tea, but no more of those damn umbrellas, ok?”
The waiter chuckles, “All right, sir. Is there anything else I can get for you?”
“No,” he is irritated that he has lost the company of a female and simply wants to rid himself of this over zealous, possibly gay, waiter. The waiter leaves and returns two minutes later with a fresh drink.
“Here you are, sir.” Xavier thinks he hears the man lisp, takes his drink and turns to face the other direction. Fucking fags, they’re everywhere. Can’t I at least get a vacation from that? He laughs under his breath and is happy to see the waiter has moved on to a new table.
He picks up the napkin again and re-reads it, Sandra, Suite 288. 10pm. Maybe this cruise won’t be as big of a waste as I thought. Xavier finishes his drink and leaves The Bistro with drunken hopes of changing the cruise’s rating from PG-13 to NC-17.
He elects taking the elevator even though it is only two flights down — not wanting to take any chances with the uncertain relationship between alcohol and gravity. He exits the elevator and heads down the small corridor, glancing at room numbers as he walks. He comes to a split in the corridor, and after a few moments of contemplation turns left, there is a door to either side of him, then a little farther down, the corridor elbows into a right turn. He continues his journey, feeling lost and beginning to think that he has picked the wrong corridor when he comes to the third to last room on the right. 288. Jesus, finally.
He knocks lightly on the mahogany door and waits. Just as he is about to knock again he hears movement on the other side of the door, then the clicking of the deadbolt and the sliding of the security chain. The door opens, revealing a woman in her late twenties, well-built, but not slender — it is his waitress. Susan! His intoxicated mind sees his former girlfriend at first glance and his heart races. He blinks and it is just the plain waitress in the doorway.
“Oh, hello.”
“Hi,” Xavier says, trying to sound sophisticatedly horny.
“I usually try to avoid mingling with the passengers, but one of the other waitresses thought you were eyeing me so she thought she’d do me a ‘favor.’ Most of the people that come on these cruises either don’t drink or only like a couple glasses of wine after the evening activities, so it surprised me when you ordered your drink.”
“And a great one at that, I might add.” He compliments, trying to flirt. She even sounds a little bit like her! “This is my first cruise, and I definitely wasn’t expecting anyone to talk to little old me.”
“Well if you’ve got wandering eyes don’t expect it to go unnoticed.”
“Yeah, well…” he trails off into a sigh, then looks at his feet. “Sorry, I guess I’ve got wandering thoughts, too.” He offers a weak grin to the waitress then drops eye contact again.
“What are you acting so funny for?” She looks at him, slightly concerned. “Sit down. I’ll be out of the shower in a few.”
“Sure, no problem,” Xavier masks his disappointment for being delayed and plops down on her bed to wait, ignoring Sandra’s comment, lost in thoughts of Susan. She closes the door to the small attached bathroom and disappears. He looks around the tiny room; it is smaller than his suite, but it lacks the clutter that living out of a suitcase usually produces. She’s not a model, but at least she’s clean, he thinks. She’s a neat freak like Susan. She has everything in a specific place: suitcase on the dresser, privacy sign by the bed — I’m sure we’ll be needing that later — shoes by the closet. Then his true thoughts surface: God I wish she had come with me. As he’s taking a second, more detailed, survey of the room he hears the shower turn on and decides to take a quick peek at Sandra, maybe even invite himself into the shower. He opens the bathroom door with the caution of a two-year-old, hitting the door on the wall — Sandra is either unaware of, or undisturbed by, his presence — and stares at the shadow of her naked silhouette, thinking that he will definitely be joining her in the shower this evening. At least she looks like Susan. He watches her shadow as she washes herself, getting more excited as he enters the steamy bathroom. I’m gonna have some fun tonight!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The ocean liner sails swiftly along the vast ocean, creating a salty spray of sea water, with a narrow wake behind it. A single cloud occupies the blue, smog-free sky hanging above the tremendous ship. The sea is calm, and all that is to be heard is the quiet hum of the liner’s engines and the movement of the water below. The Crystal Serenity continues to glide towards the horizon, the sun shining on the white boat from the east. There is a moist breeze blowing through the upper deck, cooling early risers jogging around the perimeter of the ship. There are no birds to be heard or seen this far out on the ocean, and for many of the passengers — and for the crew as well — this is a blessing.The occupants in Suite 288 haven’t awakened.
The red, digital numbers on the bedside clock read 8:32. Xavier rolls over lazily in the bed, just barely awake enough to realize he has slept in his clothes — shirt buttoned, and pants unbuttoned and unzipped, but still on. He sits up, trying to remember what had happened after he had gone into the bathroom to help Sandra finish her shower. He turns to wake her up, and does a double-take to make sure he isn’t still dreaming — his waitress lay next to him, cuts and bruises on her face and neck and her head in a pool of blood.
“What the fuck!” He yells, breaking the room’s silence. He surveys the room, his head pounding. Door’s closed, nothing’s knocked over. He glances back at the bed to remind himself he isn’t dreaming; the waitress’s battered face on bloodied sheets is the only foreign sight in the tidy cabin. Xavier realizes he is still sitting beside a corpse, quickly gets up from the queen-sized bed and begins franticly pacing from the mirrored closet to the bathroom door. He watches his feet and concentrates on the amount of steps he takes, avoiding the situation at hand. “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6,” counting under his breath he tries to gain his composure — and hopefully resurrect memories from the previous night. It occurs to him that currently his biggest challenge is to remove himself from the room without being seen; he is the most obvious suspect.
I don’t remember doing this, so I couldn’t have done it, he assures the bathroom door. His brow furrows and he tries to force his brain to remember. Shit! He blames his weakness for Long Island iced tea on another morning waking up next to a stranger — this time she just happened to be dead. Fucking Janice, he partially blames his sister for the predicament he was in, why does she always have to be trying to “expand my horizons?”
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