Staring at the arabesque lines adorning the ceiling, Kylie bit her tongue and tried to ignore the cacophony emerging from the kitchen. Above her head red, gold and green leaves swirled ornately around the antique molding. In contrast to the ascetic white of the walls, she’d always loved the byzantine wind of the ceiling patterns in the old house.

        In antithesis to the peaceful scene over her head, the din assailing her earlobes reminded her that once again, her uncle was attempting to cajole her mother into selling the place. Passed down from her grandmother, the house was over one hundred years old and to Kylie, was the only heirloom that mattered. If the cachinnation sailing through the door was anything to go on, her uncle wasn’t getting anywhere. Although it was true that the home was a bit grand for three, Kylie and her sister Kate rallied like bellicose patriots to keep it. An amalgamation of victorian and antebellum architecture, this was the home of their childhood, rich with memories, secret hiding places, and first kisses on the veranda.

      Her beleaguered uncle failed to see that at nineteen, Kylie’s repudiation of a chic apartment had less to do with the loss of a private bedroom, but with genuine fondness for the home herself.  Kate learned to ride a bike in the dim basement; together they’d told tales of the folk that lived beyond the crown of the molding and under the grain of the knotty floorboards. It was home. Belying his claim of concern for their safety, Kylie suspected her Uncle would rather his inheritance exist in more portable property. Avering to do what she could to help the cause, Kyle stood and went to assuage the situation in the kitchen, plans for attack already burgeoning in her head.

‘Why is muscle soft?’ she thought, though she knew she ought to focus on the situation at hand. ‘Not soft like baby-soft or feather-soft or jelly-soft, but yielding’.  Taut, she found muscle impressive, audaciously declaring its existence. Loose, she liked the resistance it gave against her trailing fingers. She’d once dated a man with  shoulders so shaped that they seemed bubbly…hmm…shoulders…  Ah yes, the situation at hand…

The shoulders to which she administered her fingers belonged to a man egregiously drawing attention to himself on the waterfront. They were a nice set of shoulders, wide and well proportioned, and any other time she would have been pleased to make their acquaintance. Now, they were unfortunately attached to the man whose imprecations joined those of his challengers, spreading out like storm clouds in the air over the sand.  To be fair, the scurrilous taunts tossed back and forth by the men in front of her were hardly epigrams, and neither conversed in their native tongues. Opprobrious as it was to caught between them, attempting to palliate the situation was the only way she could think of to diffuse the building tension. Around them, beach wanderers stopped to stare at the ruckus unfolding as the postures of the gathering group  became more aggressive.  Mindful not to step entirely into his way, she hoped to allay the tension in the man under her fingers as best she could with her calming (or minimally, she hoped, distracting) touch.

Although she was almost sure he wasn’t listening, she spoke quietly to his profile, hoping her hand on his skin would keep him from stepping forward. Her mother-hen proclivity inured the moment she heard raised voices, and although there was nothing sexy at all about stepping into a scuffle, she put her ‘Rules of Vacation’ thoughts aside and stepped right in. “NO couples, NO children, NO conflict”, those were her wishes for this trip. This wasn’t the way it should have gone. Out at the jetty, wary remarks from a guest regarding the honesty of their guide turned deleterious, quickly spiraling into discomfort and disagreement over the fees rendered for services. Now, what might have been a brief misunderstanding threatened to vitiate an otherwise wonderful night. Smiling her best “aren’t-you-handsome-when-you’re-angry” smile, she leaned into the fray and, apologizing all around, took her new friend by the arm and drew him reluctantly away from the match.

Talking softly in the shade of the palm trees and the shelter of a beach chair, they buried their adrenaline-shaking legs is the sand and shared a restorative beer. Discussion revealed that the initial claims of perfidy came from a querulous man whose pejorative nature largely discredited his opinion. Impressively paranoid, his twitching features and unnecessary urgency  frenetically exacerbated the fray, polarizing the situation into the froth they just came out of. Soon the caricature of the man released quavering limbs into laughter, and trading sunglasses-disguises with memories of the night, they sipped beers, told tales and kicked divots into the sand until the stars once again began to shine reassuringly.