"Are you sure you'll be okay?" She asks out of Vitor's earshot.

"Definitely," I assure her. "If we were twenty-one years old, then splitting up would be a horrible idea."

"Right. We would both get raped and murdered, or sold into slavery."

"Exactly. But we're pushing thirty. Our stock on the black market has plummeted by now."

"Good point," she laughs. "Have fun! Don't forget, we're heading to the volcano tomorrow."

As she makes her way through the crowd, Vitor returns from the bar with two rum-and-pineapples. I thank him and take a sip, giving a soft "mmm" of approval. We hold each others' gazes for a moment, until he bends his head towards me and opens his mouth slightly over my bottom lip, sucking it in gently before running his tongue along it. He pulls back (entirely too soon) and smiles at me while he guides me to the dance area. His lips are plump and every bit as soft as they look.

After hours of dancing, interrupted only briefly by the rain, we find a bench under a street lamp away from the music. In the light, I notice how young he looks, and can't help but ask.

"Twenty-three," he says. "And you?"

"Twenty-four," I lie without hesitation, praying my vacation glow is making up for the four years I just tossed away.

"Ah, an older woman," his eyes appraise me once again. "I love that. You can teach me things," he murmurs as he pushes back my hair to nibble at that spot behind my ear.

And he does get one lesson that night: always be prepared. As we're fumbling with each other's clothing back at his hotel room, I murmur, "Do you have a condom?"

He stops, and his face drops into a sweet, troubled little pout that makes me want to keep him forever. "I almost asked the cab driver to stop so I could buy some, but I didn't want to seem presumptuous."

"Maybe the front desk has some?"

He calls them, but no luck. So he orders a cab instead. We re-clothe ourselves and head down; I bow my head shamefully as we pass the reception desk.

"Where to?" The driver asks as he pulls away from the hotel.

We glance at each other. "We need... um, a store. Please."

He eyes us via the rearview mirror. "What kind of store?"

"Well, a pharmacy, if there's one nearby," I say, trying my best to act matter-of-fact. He doesn't respond, so I feel compelled to add, "I need to buy a toothbrush."

He lets out a deep-bellied laugh. "At 2:30 in the morning?" He makes a wide U-turn, heading back to the hotel, then reaches into his glove compartment and tosses a fistful of condoms back to us, still belting out laughter. "This is St. Lucia, there's nothing to be ashamed of! You do what you want here!"

We take his advice to heart. The next morning we awake to a room flooded with sunlight. "I feel like we're on our honeymoon," he murmurs, tracing his finger down my chest. "You know, I saw you two nights ago, eating with your friend at the Sunset Grill," he says. "I wanted to approach, but I couldn't find the nerve. Anyway, I didn't want to disturb your dinner."

He asks me to spend the day with him, and for a moment I'm tempted. But why spoil it? I have myriad complicated relationships waiting to baffle and aggravate me back in New York. Why not let this one stand, crystallized in a perfect twelve-hour window, flawless precisely because it's twelve hours long?

I tell him Hannah and I have plans to see the volcano. "I could come," he offers. "I'll be your body guard." When I politely decline, he implores me, "We must keep in touch. You maybe will come to Brazil sometime, and I will come to New York. We will see each other again."

His emotional openness would be refreshing if it weren't so naïve. In the morning sunlight, his youth is suddenly glaring at me. But true to the moment, I feed the fantasy. "Of course we will," I say, touching his soft, round cheek.

And of course, we never do.

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