As she sat at the dinner table with her family, the young waiters lined up in preparation to serve the cruise's first evening meal. One of the waiters, a small, dark, Indonesian man, sent air kisses in her direction. Instinctively, she turned around to see the recipient of the young man's affection. But there was no one behind her. When she turned and looked at him, he pointed to her, for you, the kisses are for you.
They spent the time when he wasn't waiting tables, on deck, in the library, even in the belly of the ship, looking into one another's eyes. There was a language of the soul that spoke volumes but required no words. Was this what it meant to find one's other half? Was that really true?
Wavey nudes flashed on the walls to San Juan's Latin rhythms. The floor was so crowded it was impossible to avoid brushing against multiple dancers at once. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and a sweet, rich aroma, the same one she'd noticed on her friends' clothing at home.
The waves crashed against the side of the ship while lines of whitecaps formed, drifted, and rolled away. Not wanting to release one another, they embraced on the ship's deck and looked at the moon. They promised that every night wherever they were, they would look at the moon and across the vast ocean and thousands of miles, their hearts would be one.