We had gone to see the Bimini Road. At least, that's what we told ourselves. A historian and an anthropologist didn't just go on vacation without seeing something academically interesting.We sounded like a bad joke: "A historian and an anthropologist walk into a bar in Cambridge and walk out to the Bahamas."
It actually happened. We'd actually done that.
The idea of leaving, of just leaving, was exhilarating; the reality of having actually done it was intoxicating. The historian held me by the waist as I jumped from rock to rock--the top of the wall, the road, whichever it was. I found myself not caring how this got here.
My feet were bare. I only had one dress--I'd bought it this morning. It was thin and flowy and made me feel beautiful and cool in the heat. "It's hard to believe that we're here," the historian whispered in my ear. We hadn't told anyone we were going until we were gone. Then I called my assistant and he called his assistant to say we weren't being academics today.
"I can't believe I'm here with you," I whispered back. I had known the historian for less than forty-eight hours but I was almost giddy with love.
The historian loved me, too, I could tell. It was magical. Simply magical.
Sort of like the Bimini Road.
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