Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine #6

She’s not likely, Peter thought, to win any shipboard competition for congeniality. Could anyone be more somber or more disdainful? He’d been neither fresh nor rude; he hadn’t had a chance. Besides, she’d approached him; not the other way around. Yet, once she obtained her light, she wanted nothing more to do with him.

Peter toyed with the notion of trying to speak to her again, but the specter of rejection loomed large and he abandoned the idea. He stayed at the rail for a few minutes as darkness enveloped them more fully and until the first musical dinner gong alerted him he should return to his cabin and change. When Peter last saw her, Maria continued to stare into the dwindling light of approaching night. Was she one of those people? Did she, too, feel a compulsion to climb up on the railing and plunge into the murky water sliding beneath the ship? He hoped not.

----Forty-five minutes later, Peter entered the dining salon and trailed the maitre’d to a corner table. The place was busy with people, alive with chatter. On a small stage the Tokyo Jazz Masters, a tenor sax in the lead, offered up a slow-paced arrangement of East of the Sun - and West of the Moon. When they shifted to a more upbeat tune, with vocal, I’m Gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter, Peter decided the Ink Spots they were not.

Peter looked forward to a pleasant dinner and good night’s sleep. Once in Yokohama, he still had the long train ride to Sendai and then to Akeyama. A British diplomat he’d met earlier waved from the Captain’s table. Peter lifted his hand in a reciprocal salute and began to explore the bill of fare. He was hungry.

“Excuse me, may I join you?” Peter looked up directly into those same sensual and sad eyes. He had it right; hazel. And this time the young woman had a smile for him. “I hope I didn’t surprise you. It’s quite crowded. The maitre’d said you were alone and there was a place here. My father is over there--at the Captain’s table.”

Peter’s eyes roamed the room; several chairs still stood empty. Had she singled him out? He hoped so. “Yes, by all means, join me,” he said.

Napkin in hand, Peter half stood while a steward assisted her with the chair.

She was perfect. Her flaxen hair was perfect. Her lustrous skin was perfect. Her navy blue dress, long and sleek, was perfect. And, he surmised, her svelte body was