“He pours us two orange-colored beverages near his lounge chair and stirs in tequila. He hands me my drink. ‘You obviously know me. Maybe it’s my turn to get to know you,’ he says. ‘Or maybe I should call the police. What is your choice?’
“‘I’d prefer you get to know me.’
“He looks older up close: specks of gray throughout his hair, tiny wrinkles around his eyes, and a single, narrow roll of fat near each armpit that tells me he’s in middle-age. Mature and still attractive. Something I like in a man. Always have. ‘Let me get this straight, you like to watch me sleep?’
“I nod and say, ‘And I like your pots. You’re an excellent artist. I respect your work and who you are.’
“‘Thank you, but they’re not all that. Would you like to see my figurines? I have them in the bungalow.’