In the wet windless heat, motels and sabal palms burned, fixed and frozen in the sun. Ten degrees hotter still was the highway, adorned with tire burns and cringing under the codas of speeding cars. I hated Flamingo. The beds were wet with sweat. The windows yellow and porous, I could hear the manager's radio all night. The rare gaze of wind and the glittering of stars through the trees set me free ten times a day, and I'd blink to find I was still standing where I was born. I hated Flamingo. The air temperature would drop just before sunrise, and if I wet my body in the Gulf at 6:00 AM I felt like a compass, like a wet finger extended into the wind to check for direction. Wrapped in that information, I felt safe. I hated Flamingo. I fell asleep in the Gulf once and woke up at high noon, flat in the tide, and I had not drifted a meter. When the CEO of money changed its name to the Gulf of Disappointment, Otto chartered a plane to Little St. James for a game of chicken. He came back with a hand for me to hold. I would stare at it in its little gilded box.

Gilda came by to sit on the balcony at 8:00 PM. The pink wings of sundown shrouded our smoke under heaven, and she flexed her wrist. She naively wished for blindness, trapped in an arranged marriage with the mirror. She cried and laughed, she scared me but did not faze me. "Did Otto bring you a bottle of rum too?"

I blinked. I was tired. "Yes." I lied.

"Want to drink it?"

Shit. "I'd rather have a beer. You want one?"

"That sounds nice."

As I reeled slowly down the metal stairs, I exhaled, remembering that the fridge was warm. I walked to the manager's office for ice. Through the teal screen door, I could hear:

Are the stars out tonight
I don't know if it's cloudy or bright
I only have eyes for you, dear
The moon may be high
But I can't see a thing in the sky
I only have eyes for you

When I pushed the door open, its clack did not rouse Franco, looking down at his desk. This room always reeked of something. Maybe cigars, probably weed. I hesitated, choosing not to greet him and instead turned my back to shovel ice into a Publix tote.

"How's Verity?"

I looked over my shoulder, letting my fingers burn in the ice for a moment.

"She's feeling better" I lied. "I'll let her know you asked."

He grinned blankly. "She called me last night. I could hardly understand her - talking about medicine and leeches -"

I cut him off with a loud crunch of the ice scoop, turning my head to cringe. He continued - "Are you gonna pay for that?"

Relieved he changed the subject, I improvised a look to shoot at him. He smirked and looked back down at his phone.

Gilda drew a bottle from the ice, her brass rings clinking against the glass. "This is warm." She hummed.

… "So, leave it in the ice for a minute." I shrugged, opening mine.

She sheathed the bottle back down into the ice, creating a noise like shattering glass.

I swallowed. "The music here drives me insane." I carped. "It's beautiful, but it gives me a headache."

She stared at the railing. "Everything gives you a headache. A date with a pornstar would give you a headache. Winning the lottery would give you a headache."

"Yeah, neither one of those things sound particularly helpful right now."

"All you do is complain."

"I'm sorry. It's the heat-"

"There you go again."

I smiled and swallowed two mouthfuls of beer. The horizon eclipsed the sun by now, turning the green glass bottle brown.

"What I need," I resumed, "Is to go deaf. That would fix everything."

"You already act oblivious."

"And anyway, the noise isn't the problem. It's that it won't leave me the fuck alone. I can't think. It's like a clingy girlfriend."

"Is Verity coming home anytime soon?" She turned. "I saw you put up a new picture of her inside, from before she had you."

"She's not coming to my home. I'll probably die waiting for her to apologize."

"Did you ever apologize to her for camping out against her bladder for nine months and splitting her in two on your way out?"

"Actually, yes. Several times."

"And did that change anything?"

"Whatever."

I lifted two beers from the melting ice and held one out to her.

"I need to relax." I breathed. "I'm acting like a jerk."

"You need to get laid."

"Yeah, Right." I stared at my hands. I don't really want to drink another beer. "That's just what I need. A reminder of the only thing I'm good for." I pried the cap off against the arm of my chair.

"Are you calling me a whore?"

"Whores get paid. What does that make you?"

"A lover." Gilda sighed. We made eye contact and laughed.

"I like the music he plays." She smiled mildly. "It cools me down."

"Want to go for a swim?"

"No, I don't feel like it." She took a sip. "Ever since I woke up this morning, I've felt so exposed."

We sat for a moment, listening to the wind flow through palm fronds. The mouth of the gulf glittered under orange highway lights. It's much easier to be outside at night.

"Okay," I said - "Fuck, Marry, Kill: Past, Present, Future."

"You've asked me this before. You forgot." She frowned.

"Has your answer changed at all?"

She paused. "No. It's still kill the future, fuck the past, and marry the present."

"Weird. Everyone says kill the past."

"The future doesn't exist yet. It's the least alive of all of them." She said, annoyed. "And it's a dumb question."