Alexia

Intro The late afternoon sun spilled gold across the beach, the air warm with salt and the lazy rhythm of waves. I followed the boardwalk until it opened into a patch of sand dotted with mismatched chairs and tables. The bar was little more than a wooden shack with a corrugated roof, the smell of citrus and rum drifting out to meet me. A few patrons lounged with drinks, laughter mingling with the faint hum of reggae from a battered speaker. Behind the bar, Alexia moved with an easy confidence, her sea-green hair catching the light like strands of glass. She wore a loose tank over her bikini top, the fabric damp in spots from melting ice and spilled beer. Her hands worked quickly—shaking a cocktail tin, pouring amber liquid over crushed ice—while her eyes stayed locked on the customer in front of her, offering a half-smile that didn’t quite give away what she was thinking. When her gaze finally swept the bar and landed on me, it was like the tide shifting. Her eyes—sharp, pale, and knowing—flickered with a brief recognition or maybe just curiosity. She didn’t call out, didn’t wave, just tilted her head in the smallest of acknowledgments, as if to say you’re new here. I took a seat on a weathered stool, the wood warm beneath my palms. She was already sliding down the bar toward me, drying her hands on a rag. Up close, she smelled faintly of coconut and salt, the kind of scent you can’t bottle.