Boy Tom, you’ve really done it. A nice trip to St. Martin and on the company dime no less. Not a thing between you and the opaque shores of Orient Beach. Now, if this airport security line could get some locomotion, you could focus on that ocean.

How shall I address my paradise to its locals? Like the Dutch: “St. Maarten?” Or like the French: “St. Martin?” As the toponomist says of a nationally partitioned island, “After a few mojitos, who cares!“

Huh?

Take off my belt? But I’m not wearing a belt, sir. Perhaps what’s setting off this curiously out of date metal detector is the loose change in my pocket. No sir, I can remove the change myself. Or then again you can do it, as you’ve evidently deemed necessary.

Boy these airport security guards can be rough.

… rough as the sand between my toes. The ocean’s gentle, foamy lap in time with my paste-slow palpitations. Thump- thump. Thump-thump.

Ow, sir! No need to push! I can step to the side on my own volition.

And no! I mean, no, sir; that bottle is most certainly smaller than 14 fluid ounces. And as you can see, it’s only half full. What is it? Antibiotics.

Yes, mam. It’s a prescription. Atrophic rhinitis. That means I get really bad crusties on the rim of my – oh, I don’t want to bother you with – and beside – right, just harmless antibiotics. I mean, boy, can you believe anyone would take me, Thomas Pembrooke, for a drug dealer?

No, I’m not being smart. No, I’m not carrying this bottle on behalf of someone else. No, I haven’t had sex with a man from Cameroon, Gabon or Niger since 1977. I haven’t had sex with a man ever – not that there’s anything wrong with…

The beach, Tom. Think about the beach. And the kiss of the wind. (The kiss of the masseuse!) Forget these rent-a-cops with their know nothing stares and too small button-ups and weaponless holsters.

Weaponless holsters? That’s strange.

All this effort to slow down Ol’ Tom, and someone could just walk in here with a handful of guns or a grenade stuffed parcel and just level the crag of crud.

Now what fun would that be?

Another hour at the terminal. Seven more in the air. Then St. Mar-whatever, I’m yours. Nothing can stop me now! Hm, I wonder if those well-groomed Russians could spare a stool at the airport bar. I could use a drink.