We're in the elevator on the way down to the pool. Emerz is readjusting the drawstring of his Vilebrequin Salamander trunks. Toni is upset that we are all sharing a room. Trouble in paradise. Literally. "What's he even doing here?" she asks in a stage whisper.
"Blog fodder," says Emerz.
"Bog flodder," says Toni.
The weather is here, I wish we were beautiful.
You know me and Emerz, always finding cities and parties we were told never existed. This pool is no exception. Toni finds a frenemy from Dwight. I'm suddenly hungry for Jell-o. "Virgin pina colada," says Emerz to a cabana boy. "I really can't stress virgin enough."
If you like pina coladas... Well, let's see. Forecast calls for oppressively sunny skies, no one's making love at midnight unless one of us orders a cot, Toni's heavy into yoga and the last half of her brain seems to have crawled inside a bottle of Xanax. For the flight, she says, clearing a nostril.
I get nice and lobstery and head back upstairs, buy the full porn-pass (can't afford not to), but soon I'm roaming the channels. There's the old, familiar back-and-forth: porn, Love Actually, porn. Lather, rinse, repeat. Cable's been taken over by romantic comedies, supposedly as fluffy as the pillows on our bed. But they still pose a threat. That hidden stinger of romcoms--copious and lengthy bouts of infidelity on behalf of the woman who is not sure that what she thought she wanted all along is really what she actually wants. It just sort of happened, she says. I tried to tell you, she says. Didn't you notice my declining interest in the flower arrangements for the wedding we've been planning? My growing ambivalence over the decorating scheme for the house you bought me?
Well, you know me and Emerz. The completely acceptable, hoodwinked alternative.
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