“You want some of this?” I reached out to her, offering the bottle of straight dark rum, my voice strained through the burning caramel stinging in my throat. She looked over at her husband who paid us no mind, seemingly wrapped up in the view of the lake. Turning back to me, she shrugged and a sly smile came across her face that said, “Why not?”
There was late to a party, and then there was my unpunctuality, evident immediately upon arrival. Having to park my car down the bottom of the driveway and walk a few minutes to reach the summer house, I carried a bottle of rum in each hand by way of an apology. I crunched steadily up the gravel path in the dying heat of the day, drawn to the glowing lights and growing burble of happy conversations as yet out of view. I hadn’t expected to be back in town this weekend and bumping into old friends on the High St had been a welcome surprise, doubly so when they’d invited me to join their party tonight. I stepped through the door, greeted by a small cheer and a procession of hugs, trading the humid air for the warmth of familiar faces and the welcome of new introductions. I handed one bottle of rum to a friend and dug my nails into the foil of the other, rewarded with a pop as I worked the stopper cork free. I walked out to the patio and threw it into the lake with a flourish. We’d never been the group to finish the night with unfinished bottles. That’s when I caught my first glance of her for a long time. Maybe it was the moonlight, or the revenant haze of nostalgia, but she practically glowed. We made eye contact and I winked before turning back to my friends. Something told me we’d be chatting before long.