The boy tugged playfully at the girl’s plaid pleated skirt as they were making out. A TV show of some sort was playing in the background, but neither person paid it much mind, or any at all, really. They were both engrossed in the taste of each other’s tongues. 

Okay, so there’s a flood. A man is caught in it, and he climbs up onto the roof of his house in order to escape the water. As he’s sitting there, another man comes by in a raft.

“Jump in!” the man says. “We can row to safety!”

The man on the roof says, “No, leave me. I have faith that God will save me.”

So the man in the raft paddles away.

I was up to talk to my doctor about Rybelto. I wanted to know what Rybelto did. The guy on the commercial held a bowling ball. Maybe Rybelto improved hand-eye coordination. I wanted better hand-eye coordination so I ate the $50 copay and went to see my doctor. He told me Rybelto wasn’t right for me.

Tropical sun rays glinted off turquoise waters, beckoning her brown skin to a richer shade of chocolate, turning mine from a wintry white to a pale pink that stung slightly, like a lovebite that lands right at the threshold between pleasure and pain. We waltzed in waist-deep lagoons while slurping rummy cocktails out of coconut halves. Sometimes twice in a single day we found ourselves tangled up in clumsily wonderful sex (clumsy because we waited, and wonderful because, well, we waited). Nestled in a hammock strung between two palm trees, massaged by silver moon beams, I wondered if it could possibly get any more clumsy or wonderful.

Doris straightened her jacket and patted her curls. Potential customers filled the plush white armchairs before her, buzzing like curious flies, all lured in by her fancy paper fliers and the promise of free pastries. All that was left was convincing them to subscribe for Spa Today Away’s Spontaneity Vacation.

That woman in the front row with the face tattoo? Doris would seduce her with the concept: vacations so spontaneous they could happen at literally any time.