Me. You. Coffee.

“Hola, hola, see ya later, hola, bye hola, hola.“

Paul put down his warm cerveza. He looked over at Kate, whose Spanish brand Malibu and Pepsi had frozen in time an inch from her lips.

“…the fuck was that?” Her eyes said. 

“It’s the universe being completely unfair, that’s what!” He attempted to convey via contorted eyebrows, through the 29 °C air.

Mr. Hola-see-ya-later weaved through the pool bar, the waft of Lynx Africa and suncream trailing behind him. The beer-belly swayed atop scrawny, lobster-red legs. The smile on his lips was a mix of San Miguel, sunshine, and naivety.

He walked with the confident swagger only the rich and the stupid possess. 

“You slave away year on year for a holiday you can barely afford. You vet hotel after hotel to make sure that your one break in a decade has the sort of clientele you would want to mix with, but you just can’t escape the world’s dickheads, can you?”

Paul took a deep breath.

“It must be nice, mustn’t it,” he asked hypothetically.

“What is?” Kate absentmindedly answered. She wasn’t really listening, nor did she care for the answer. Still, she knew it made him feel a little better.

“Gliding through life being that thick. Nothing bothering you, because you just haven’t got a clue. Oblivious. Oblivious to what we’re all thinking. Oblivious to the world being on fire despite, no fucking doubt, having blindly been lighting matches themselves. God, I’m jealous of it. That state of lucidity. It must be bloody lovely.”

Mr. Hola-see-ya-later turned around. 

Kate gulped her drink so hard that the ice cubes clattered against her teeth.

Paul realised he might have been a touch louder than he’d anticipated.

“Hola,” Paul offered.

“Hola, hola,” smiled Mr. Hola-see-ya-later.