He was asleep and so was Amy’s arm. Numbness crept from her fingers, reaching for her elbow while his heavy exhales polluted the lush tropic air with the scent of masticated room service shrimp scampi and two guzzled beers. The wicker love seat moaned in unison with each tentative attempt to retrieve her arm from beneath his head. He shuffled. She paused, examining his sleeping face for traces of childlike innocence and ended wondering if their future children would be cursed with his nose.
The sun dipped lower into the rippling horizon, the water swallowing it slowly, savoring the taste with honeyed smiles. As darkness strained the final hopes of light, Amy saw his eyes flutter open.
“Did I fall asleep?” he asked.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Oops.” He stretched out his feet and dug his long toes into the throw rug. “I’ll be sure to stay awake for tomorrow’s.”
“We head back the day after.”
“Well, it’s a good thing we have tomorrow then.”
“My arm’s asleep.”
He moved his shoulder. Amy freed herself and laid her hands in her lap. He rose with a grunt and shuffled back inside. Amy heard the fizz and click of yet another can of beer, a singular, lonely sound inside the semi-dark of their hotel room. Blue light flicked on in her peripheral. The clipped cadence of commercials and commentary squelched the last strains of gentle birdsong. As feeling returned to her fingers, she watched the tiny floating candles bob softly, their effect marred by the flashes of unnatural color flickering through the shades. Amy watched the faint flames twinkle in the stones of her wedding rings until, one by one, each wasted tea light sighed their deaths in tiny puffs of smoke.
Rachel Svendsen 
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