Free Greetings from the Vodka Sea by Chris Gudgeon

must have been watching him watching her), and the tour guide moaned so loudly that Bruce could clearly hear him, three floors up and through the glass. A moment later, the hotel employees had sunk back into their spots, but Monica still looked up to him and, in fact, had never averted her gaze. These eyes, his eyes, she was trying to reach inside them, to dive inside them, find herself in his eyes, look through his eyes and see herself as he saw her. Bruce drew the blind. He went to the kitchenette and opened the drawer beneath the microwave. There were several knives in the drawer, and he selected the long one with the serrated edge. He shut the drawer, then slipped into bed to wait for his wife.
    . . .
    Monica stood up. She didn’t need to towel, the night air was that warm. The breeze, hot as it was, cooled her wet skin. There was that sound again. The firecrackers. McGuffan stopped himself mid-nuzzle to listen.
    â€œMarauders, eh, Ricki?”
    The manager grunted and shrugged.
    â€œMarauders?” Monica looked toward the sea.
    McGuffan nodded. He’d been through it a couple of times, he said. “Hadn’t wanted to mention anything earlier, what with the honeymoon and all.”
    â€œWhat do we do?” Monica strained to still her voice.
    McGuffan ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Remain calm, that’s always best. And wait. The government usually reestablishes a safe corridor within twenty-four hours. Isn’t that right, Ricki?”
    â€œA day, maybe two. There’s an election coming up, so who knows?”
    John broke in. “They’re like the tide. They ebb, they flow.”
    â€œWho? Who is like the tide, John? The government?”
    â€œThe government . . . the marauders . . .” His voice drifted off lazily; they were one and the same for him.
    Monica looked to the hills across the water. Several fires were spreading at an alarming rate (almost comical, from this distance). A wave of panic washed through her. She must find Bruce. Where could he be? He’d gone to the beach hours ago. And a different kind of panic overtook her. Perhaps he’d seen? Perhaps he’d been coming up through the path and caught sight of her — the lot of them — in the Jacuzzi. Of course, the idea had struck her before, and, in fact, at the time, it was this idea that appealed to her most. It wasn’t so much the foreign men, naked, leading her on (Alice bleating, “Go for it, love, you’re on bloody holiday,” but the thought that Bruce might see, would see, and approach in anger (slightly aroused but angry, righteous without being self-righteous) and grab her roughly (but not ungallantly) and, with a few threatening, understated words to the foreigners, whisk her off to the room — this is what excited her. She’d been stupid. A stupid girl. She couldn’t blame the men. They were attractive and aroused (not a big deal, really, for her, but it did tip the scales slightly) and so adolescent in the obviousness of their intentions, their earnest, almost pathetic actions (they must have thought English girls were such sluts), tugging her hands towards them (not forcefully, but with such vague and, again, pathetic deference it was almost sad; she pitied them, as people tend to pity foreigners). No. She’d never been so stupid. Not even in school. She was a married woman now, for godsake; and even if she weren’t —
    Monica hurried off toward the beach to find John, all the way reproaching herself. But you can say only so much, and by the time she reached the sand (there were his shoes, and there, his shirt) she was already repeating herself. It was agreed: she’d been stupid. But now they’d have to live with it and move on. The waves washed almost to her feet. It was the sea, she thought. The damned sea. They’d put it in everything: the sauces, the cocktails, the dessert, the aperitifs. The sea was everywhere. The