The Glass-Bottom Boat – Part 2: Sunset Tide

Dinner was on the sand under a palm roof, at a plastic table with a lantern in a jar. They ate grilled snapper with lime, black beans and fresh tortillas, and drank cold beer from the bottle. The sun slid slowly into the sea, and the sky turned pink, then orange, then deep violet. Waves hissed up the beach.

"I'm terrible at this," said Diego.

"At dinner?"

"At asking."

"You asked perfectly."

"I practised on the fish."

Bianca laughed, her hands around the bottle. The bonfire crackled further up the beach, a few fishermen's children tossing driftwood into it. A guitar played somewhere.

"Diego. May I kiss you?"

His whole face lit. "Please."

The kiss tasted of lime and salt. His hand cupped her jaw, warm and calloused from a decade of ropes, and she slid her arms around his neck, laughing against his mouth. A wave rolled over their feet. They did not move.

"The boat," he said. "She is tied at the dock. There is a cabin. It is small. It has a hammock and a fan. No one will interrupt."

"Show me."

They walked hand in hand along the dock under the stars, the little glass-bottom boat bobbing gently at her moorings. The cabin was tiny and snug, with a hammock, a hatch open to the sky and the sound of water lapping the hull. They undressed slowly by lantern light, laughing at salt-stiff shirts and a stubborn button, and made love gently, unhurried, with the boat rocking like a cradle. Overhead the stars wheeled across the open hatch.

At dawn Bianca woke tucked in the hammock against his chest, with the sun just touching the water. A small school of fish glittered beneath the glass floor.

"Gordo's out early," she murmured.

"He is looking for a new friend."

"He's got one." She smiled. "Two, actually. I have another year on the study."

"Then I will need to learn more Latin," said Diego, grinning. "And all the proper names for the corals."

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