The colour of the breeze
When I woke the following afternoon, I found Michael sprawled in bed, still passed out in our hotel room. He stank of stale alcohol and sweat. His mouth hung open in a distinctly unattractive way, but I had no sympathy for him. My mind was elsewhere—on the mysterious stranger from the beach. Had it been real? Had I dreamt up that kiss in some drunken haze?
I slipped out of the room, leaving Michael to whatever nightmares might plague his sleep. Then I trudged down the length of Long Beach under a blazing sun that felt more punishing than any I remembered in Europe. Squinting against the glare, I scanned the horizon for a fishing boat—something that might match the silhouette I’d seen the night before. 
Hope propelled me on. I walked for hours, sand gritting between my toes and sticking to my sweaty skin. I wanted to believe that the event had been real, not just a boozy hallucination. The clarity and tenderness of the kiss refused to leave my mind. It felt heartbreakingly genuine, even though I’d tasted the bitterness of my tears only minutes prior. 
But the sea was dotted with boats, and each time I tried to spot a familiar shape, it just turned out to be a different vessel or a trick of the light. Eventually, exhaustion and dehydration reminded me I was made of flesh, bone, and an over-taxed heart. I sank down under the shade of a coconut tree, letting my arms drop onto the sand. The wide brim of my sun hat—ridiculous as it was—shielded me from further scorching.
I sat there for half an hour, grappling with disappointment. In that time, I replayed my foolishness with Michael, the shock of the kiss from the stranger, and the agony of wanting something impossible. It was all swirling together in my mind, creating an emotional brew that left me restless and unsatisfied.
By five o’clock, the shadows had grown long, but the sun was still punishingly strong. I considered abandoning my search. I didn’t even know the man’s name. Had I just been a foolish drunk, imagining comfort where there was none? Perhaps it was best left as a single, unforgettable moment: a beautiful but ephemeral experience that wouldn’t weigh me down.
Just as I was about to retreat to the hotel, I heard the hum of a motorboat coming ashore. The boat slowed as it neared the sand, and there, at the back, knees bent in a confident stance, was the very person I’d been looking for. I recognised that lithe, muscular form, the deep-brown skin, the crooked grin that curved the lips I’d tasted the night before.
He guided the rudder, bringing the boat to a gentle stop in the shallows. Another man—older, probably in his forties—jumped off. They exchanged a few words in English, something about rinsing off snorkel gear. My mysterious stranger hopped down as well, grabbing a basket of gear. They waded ashore and walked to a ramshackle bamboo hut. A shack would be more accurate.
I stood rooted in place, unable to speak, hardly believing my luck. When the older man emerged and left on a motorbike, I decided I had a chance to approach. I hovered near the shack for a while, trying to still my racing heart. Should I knock? Should I call out? My typical English reserve battled fiercely with my curiosity and longing. In the end, the last rays of the sun reminded me that daylight was slipping away. I hadn’t chased a personal desire like this in years, and so, summoning my courage, I walked up and rapped on the bamboo door.
No response.
I tried again, more insistent this time, anxiety bubbling in my chest. Still nothing. The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sea and sky in brilliant shades of pink and purple. My chance was evaporating along with the light. 
Heart pounding, I pushed the door open.
Inside, the front room was dark and scattered with a few makeshift shelves, a bamboo bed doubling as seating, and snorkelling equipment hanging on the wall. A partition screen at the back let through the faint glow of a candle. The gentle splash of water reached my ears, and I picked my way across the uneven bamboo floor until I reached the screen.
I wished I’d knocked again, because what I found stole my breath in more ways than one.