The Wee Hours Takes a Vacation—To Bahamian Dissipation

Inside, we made our way to a club called Dragon. The dance floor worked its way around the bar in a crescent, with a roped-off section just beyond it, and buckets of ice—waiting for their bottles—lined the marble countertop. Nothing foreign, but nothing comforting; any resemblance to New York made this whole economy of sun and rum further from a thing we could like. An enormous white man who self-identified as a Harvard graduate, living in a penthouse nearby, was nice enough to fill one of the buckets with Patron.

He turned to our brothers, who are identical twins.

“I love twins, but usually of the other gender,” Harvard said. “I love fucking twins. Man, I gamble, and I play better when I’m fucking.”

We did a shot of Patron.

“You have any problems,” he added. “You let me know.”

We did have a problem. Beyond that roped-off section stood a girl with far-away eyes, eyes like an untouched ocean, dancing like the undulations in a lava lamp. She was standing with three men, each wearing a similar pec-hugging shirt.

But she was leaving, out of the club and back toward the stone temple hallways, back toward the hotel suites. Before we could say anything, though, she smiled, took the man’s hand and was gone.

We ended up standing at the bar next to our father.

“You know, I’ve been watching you. You drink too much,” he told us.

nfreeman@observer.com