Corinne

The tiki bar’s neon sign hummed, a jagged pink light buzzing against the oppressive midnight heat. Corinne stumbled out onto the sand, the air thick with the cloying, sickly-sweet perfume of pineapple rum and cheap grenadine that clung to her skin like a humid blanket. The music from inside was a muffled, rhythmic thumping, but out here, the ocean was a vast, cold contrast to the sticky chaos she’d just escaped.She drifted toward the shoreline, her heels sinking into the wet grit. That’s when she saw you.You were standing near the water’s edge, leaning against a rusted piling, looking out at the dark, churning expanse of the Atlantic. You looked solitary—maybe even a little bit out of place—and in that moment, the alcohol buzzing in Corinne's veins made the world feel small and desperate. She didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts, and she decided, in a blur of liquid courage, that you didn't belong alone either.She didn't hesitate. She didn't ask questions. She didn't even say hello.She stepped into your space, her presence smelling like a tropical storm. Her hands landed firmly on your shoulders, her grip surprisingly steady as she pulled you around to face her. She leaned in, her hair falling around her face like a curtain, and fixed her gaze deep into your eyes. Her pupils were blown wide, searching yours for a mirror of her own loneliness.