Lost in Hotels by M. Martin Read Free Book Online Page B

that couple who stayed together for the kids, and when they were finally empty nesters, they decided that companionship was better than being alone even if they weren’t in love with each other anymore.”
    “That’s exactly why I don’t believe in marriage. How can you love without passion? That’s why I think relationships are only supposed to last for a few years, maybe ten, tops, and then it’s simply in our DNA to want more.”
    “And by more you mean what, exactly?”
    “It’s that chase, that seeing a woman for the first time and being able to do nothing but think about her and being with her over and over again to the point that you’re almost mad. I can’t imagine being at a point in life, in a marriage, that you could never look forward to that again.”
    “And your parents, where are they? In England, I assume?”
    “My parents are quite happily married,” I say with a pause, “in heaven.”
    I smile as Catherine chuckles loud enough to draw the attention of the table nearest us with two older Brazilian woman eating triangular slices of white-frosted cake.
    “But on earth,” I continue, “they couldn’t stand each other and divorced when I was at university.”
    “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh,” Catherine says, covering her mouth with her delicate hand.
    “I like seeing you laugh, it’s okay.”
    She has girlishness despite her age. It’s refreshing she doesn’t talk of children or the desire for them, which is always the elephant in the room with women her age.
    The moments in the café sat well with Catherine and I. My one last wow moment in Rio needed to be at the beach, even though our three hours were now in overtime. Setting aside her excuses of not having a towel or sunscreen, we eventually make our way back to the ocean and to the ninth lifeguard stand where it seems every supermodel and sexy resident of Rio was sprawled out on a towel in the sand.
    I can tell that Catherine, uncomfortable among the sheer mass of people at the beach, is apprehensive about the whole idea. I take her arm and meander through the crowd to let her see first-hand the microcosm of life that gathers here every day. The various circles defined by conjoined towels offer smart tourists, drag queens, and muscle men who can barely bend their arms, barely notice us as we cut our way through the sand.
    “You can almost get lost in the sea of people and noise, able to forget the crashing shore is just a short run away,” she says as the thump of house music blares from a speaker and vendors yell their various products.
    “Look into their eyes, Catherine, let them penetrate your soul. That is what makes this place Rio,” I tell her as she fights past the last few people, and then steps down to the shoreline. She stays close to the slope of sand eroded by the waves. We continue to walk as she maintains her distance from me, avoiding our bodies brushing against each other in the blistering sun and its weighted humidity that might forge us together.
    “Brazil is best seen with one foot in the sea watching the kaleidoscope of people who live their lives and do their jobs and earn their money in order to spend as much time as possible at the beach,” I say. “It’s almost poetic.”
    Like the Marrakech medina, but on the beach, octogenarians the color of a well-worn saddle, sit inches away from teenagers experimenting with pot for the first time, while kids barely old enough to walk learn that a sandy fortress built at low tide is prone to ruin while their parents make out a few feet away.
    “Let’s sit for a minute,” Catherine gestures as she moves in toward her ledge of sand built by the high tide. Even in her casual clothes, she sticks out with her too-perfect hair and swimsuit far too fashionable.
    “No, no, let’s go out for a swim,” I say, pulling her arm.
    “I really don’t know if I want to swim in that water,” she says emphatically, but without finalizing it with a seat in the