On the Apia

The bed was soft.

Many pillows cushioned my head

as I stared at the carved wooden posts of the bed,

which were catching the intense sunlight

through the ship’s portals.

The cabin was large with cushioned,

comfortable chairs, and a round,

wooden table with thick legs

made its stand in the corner.

There was a knock on the door

and the short, stocky man

who had offered his bedchamber

to a wayward young woman

who had been sleeping on a deck chair,

entered with a large tray of silver utensils

and breakfast set for a queen.

He placed the tray carefully

and asked if I was comfortable,

as he stared out at the open sea.

I dressed quickly and stood next to him,

towering over his straight, proud form.

"I am the captain of this ship," he said.

"I own a house on a small island.

It is quite lovely, and I need a wife."

He looked at me with the eyes

of one who loves a statue, a painting,

a myth of blond goddesses

who suddenly appear in the dead of night.

He barely spoke English

and didn’t know my name,

and we had not touched.

But in that moment I saw his sincerity,

his need to have the mystery unveiled

in his own cabin, his small universe traveling

on the inland sea, visiting tiny points of land

that composed the Greek islands of mythology.

I was flattered, as the young always are,

caught by an ego still emerging.

"Thank you," I said.

"But I cannot marry you.

I am in love with another man."

Not today, I thought.

Too soon you ask.

Too long to wait.