“I thought in your country that was an unpaid position—like an intern,” Bill says.
“No, no, I get paid—just not very much,” I answer with a self-effacing chuckle.
No one else laughs. I seem to have led the conversation down a dead end. I look at Gwen; she buries her face in the menu.
“I find teaching fascinating,” Pamela breaks the silence and comes to my rescue. “Filling all those young minds with knowledge. If I had not gone into the airline industry I would have very much liked to become a teacher. Besides, I adore children.”
“How many kids do you have?” Don asks.
“Oh, I don’t have any,” For the briefest second something flickers in Pamela’s eyes, a shadow of sadness swiftly gone. “Bill has a daughter from his first marriage—lovely girl.”
Now it is time for me to come to Pamela’s rescue. “Well, right now I work with adult students, but I worked with children at one time and I can tell you it is not all shiny apples and eager minds yearning for knowledge.”
“So nothing’s changed,” Amy says and then elaborates, “Before I met Don, I taught high school English. So you see, Phillip, I know exactly what you mean when you mention how disinterested many students are in learning. I blame television.”
“The idiot box,” Bill says.
Amy nods in agreement. “It’s rotted their brains. I remember standing in front of the class and seeing such vacant stares. When I was their age I always had my face buried in a book.”
“She still does,” Don jibes. “Half the time I am talking to her she’s not even paying attention to me—she’s engrossed in some novel.”
“I like to read, too,” Pamela joins in. “I just wish I had more time to do so.”
“Oh, honey, find the time. This place is a book lover’s heaven,” Amy says. “Just give me a good book, a recliner under a palm tree and I’m happy.”
After our meal arrives, Don and Pamela engage in a lively discussion on world events, to which I pay only partial attention.
“-but that would be a violation of the U.N. resolution,” Pamela asserts.
“The U.N. is a glorified debating society,” Don booms. “Just a bunch of do-nothing politicians preening and posturing. If the U.N. won’t put a stop to this then we will.”
Similar statements fly back and forth loaded with words such as unilateral action and tactical strikes. Occasionally, Bill jumps in with a measured, slow statement, but Don, with the unquestioning certainty of someone who gets all his facts from Fox New, and Pamela, with the humorous, insightful approach of a devoted Daily Show viewer, are the heavyweights in this debate.
Amy observes Don robustly sparring, shakes her head, and then turns to me: “They had to get him started. Don will go all night now. Mark my words, later tonight, we’ll be lying together in bed, and he’ll still be going on about this. Do either of you keep up with all this world politics stuff?”
“I do, a little, but not nearly as much as these two,” Gwen chuckles and nods to Pamela and Don who continue to debate. “Phillip, on the other hand is oblivious.”
“It’s true,” I sheepishly agree.
“If it’s not written in some dusty, old English book Phillip doesn’t know anything about it,” Gwen teases. “Now, one thing I am an expert on is food, and I must say this is delicious. I can hardly wait for dessert.”
Amy nods vigorously. “I was torn between what I ordered and what you ordered. Everything looked so good. I won’t be able to fit into any of my clothes once I go back home.”
“Is something wrong, honey? You’ve hardly touched your food,” Gwen asks me.
I move it around on my plate with obvious distaste. “I should have asked the waitress more questions before I ordered. Everything on the menu is written in French. I thought I was playing it safe by ordering chicken, but it’s got some kind of fish sauce.”
“Phillip hates seafood,” Gwen explains.
“If it breathes water I won’t eat it,” I elaborate.
“I’m sorry, honey,” Gwen consoles me and slides her plate over. “Here, eat some of my food. You might like it better.”
“You ordered steak. I like mine well done, but yours is so rare the tail is practically still switching,” I jest.
“No it’s not,” Gwen chuckles.
“Yes, it is. Look at all that blood on your plate.”
“That’s the gravy.”
“Yes, blood gravy. I can’t eat that.”
“Picky, picky,” Amy chides.
“True, but it keeps me thin,” I playfully respond.
Amy pats my hand. “You are so right. I wish I was a picky eater.”
I resolve to make up for my poor dinner experience with an extra helping of dessert.
The midnight hour draws near. Long after most of the other guests have retired from their meals to mingle at the bar or slumber in their bungalows, the six of us remain at our table laughing and chatting. Bill barely stifles a yawn, prompting Don to glance at his watch and remark how late it is.
We all rise, shake hands, and bid each other good night. Heading back to our bungalow, Gwen and I take a path that winds through manicured, lush landscaping. Most of the bungalows are dark. The air is balmy and still, filled with the sound of tropical insects and the crashing surf.
“It’s funny, initially I hated the idea of having dinner with all these strangers,” I admit to Gwen. “I wanted to be alone and not have to make small talk with a bunch of people I don’t know, but I actually had a lot of fun. They’re such interesting people to spend time with.”
Gwen is quiet.
“You didn’t mind sharing our table with them, right?” I press. “We’ll have plenty of time to take romantic meals—just the two of us.”
“You know you could have just lied back there. You did not need to tell them you’re just an adjunct professor,” she says, a slight edge to her tone.
Taken aback, I look at her sharply. “Why? I’m not ashamed of what I do.”
“I’m not ashamed of what I do, either, but we’re associating with some heavy hitters—people who are way out of our league. Don’t you want these people to think we belong at the table with them, or would you prefer to have them think we should be taking their orders and clearing away the plates?”
I do not have a quick reply. Gwen has me by surprise. She seemed to be enjoying herself all evening just as much as I was; now it seems she was secretly irritated with me the whole time.
“I don’t give a damn what these people think about us,” I snap. “I didn’t come here with you to suddenly try on a freaking alter-ego to impress a bunch of people we’ll never see again once we leave this place.”
She visibly softens her stance. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just get self-conscious around people so much wealthier than us.”
“Keep in mind; they’re quite a bit older than us. They should have more money. We could be as well off as they are someday.”
“Not on your adjunct professor salary.”
I grit my teeth in anger, but she wraps her arm around me and teases, “Kidding. Just kidding.”
Back in our room, Gwen undresses for bed, and I head to the shower. My heart quickens with anxiety; this is the first time Gwen and I will lie together in the same bed since separating months ago. Naked beneath the steaming jet of water I lean against the shower wall, taking several deep breaths to slow my heart and collect my thoughts. Suddenly, arms encircle me, soft hands running along my wet skin. Gwen presses herself against my back, holds me close, and whispers in my ear, “I’ve missed you so much, Phillip.”
Oh, God, she feels good. Her lips are on my neck. Her bare breasts caress my back. I close my eyes, tilt my head back, and try to lose myself in her embrace. Something is wrong. I am holding back. Instead of a burning desire, I am frozen, unable to respond. When I close my eyes, I see images that have haunted me for months: Gwen, wearing another man’s sweatshirt, fire light flickering on her bare legs, another man’s hands snaking across her backside as she grinds into him.