"I make no vacation friends."

I tell Scott on our first day in Puerto Rico.

We eat lavishly all week, skipping lunches to excuse deliberately drunken dinners and a la moded deserts.

Our third night, we order a bottle of wine and watch as we walk crooked lines back to our room; fall to the hotel bed and click at the cable box before submitting to the silences of intimacy. Then a funny thing happens. Amidst our naked fooleries, I remember two days before when, in bashful fear that the maids might see, I had locked our condoms in the safety deposit box.

"They're in the safe!"

I exclaim, laughing.

Later on, after the four-digit coded foreplay, after the main sheeted, sheathed event, after brushing our teeth, and after pulling our underwear back on, we curl up together and collapse into the best kind of sleep.

"I make no vacation friends."

I tell Scott on our first day in Puerto Rico.

This is the only time when he is all mine.