Our sloop sits proud in the water. Shoulders back and her nose in the air, trying to appear proper but you can feel her straining to ride the wind like quarrel from crossbow, and Christ would you please punch through my armor?

Gray-bottomed with blue trim, teak decks polished by the stroke of dancing feet, yours and mine, the brush of our gripping hands. When she lets down her hair its bleached canvas wealth catches the wind, and she cuts water like a pearl-handled straight razor.

Cabins in the base, a berth for your valuables and mine. Leave the jewels of the earth back that way, this boat needs no ballast. We’ll ride the pitch and roll and make the tides jealous with our rocking.

With the wind taut against her sails, her lines hum through their brass stays like Robert Johnson’s guitar strings.

Hellhounds can’t follow over moving water, didn’t you know?

We’ll ride the unbroken blue to strange ports and put our heels down on rough cobbles through winding streets littered with cafes and dark corners that hold mysteries and never threats. Places where we can tuck ourselves into a shadow for precious seconds.

Ours is a bundle of moments, gathered round the middle by the circle of your thumb and index while I watch you blow smoke from your nostrils and wink at me over the cloud.

I’d pour your coffee forever if you’d let me.

I could put up my knife, but I’d never and you’d understand that there are some comforts that become constants.

With those wild eyes above that smile, you’d dare me to a head start I’d never take. I have my way, it’ll be a neck and neck photo finish every time.

Somebody else can stay to collect the trophy. We’ve got to be off soonest.

Fuck ‘em if they backed the wrong horse, we’ll take the winnings from their ten-to-one odds and say thank you.

The boat needs a new sail, your wrist needs silver and there appears to be a hole in the bottom of this bottle.