Friday nights are always a crush — no matter where in The Cove you decided to drink.  Packed close together on bar stools our bare legs kept colliding.  As I licked salt off the rim of my third margarita, Robert slid his hand way the hell up my shorts.

     "I've got a room at The Inn," he had whispered.

     "Sounds biblical."  I choked a little on the salt.  And wobbly in the knees I managed to get off the bar stool and follow him outside.     

     Now Craig pulled Robert close to him on the dock.  I felt movement inside of myself.  Cramps?  Or plain old lust?  Putting a hand inside my shorts pocket I pressed surreptitiously, thinking:  Why does it have to be so complicated?  Then I heard myself saying:  "It's simple math." 

     "Not you, too!"  Craig threw back his head and laughed.  I watched his adams-apple bobbing, a full head above Robert's head; and pictured his penis moving that same way. 

     "One plus one plus one equals migraine," I said.   

     Robert flinched pretending to be clueless.  Craig was clueless.  It always amazed me how innocent Craig could look.

     "Honey," said Craig touching my shoulder, "I might have some Darvon in the car."

     I groaned and squatted on the pier.  "No drugs, please.  Thanks but no thanks."  

     "It's prescription."  Craig made it sound like an offering.

     A fog horn blared through the haze.  "Shut-up, will you!" I yelled back at it.  

     "The Blonde is getting pissy."  Robert was starting to pace again.  "She doesn't like being stood-up by Captain Andy."

     Slowly I got on my feet.  "And you can shut your mouth, too."  I punched Robert.  But without conviction.  My fist connecting weak and watery with his upper arm.  But my eyes had locked onto his fleshy bottom lip, and I had to hold back from saying: You did good with that lip last night.  Suddenly it didn't seem to matter. 

     "I did Robert and he did me," I said. 

     In that split second I watched the calm in Craig's face shatter as he struggled to stay composed, shading his eyes with one hand, staring out across the empty inlet.  A vague moldy smell coming off the water. 

     "Yep.  It was quite something, Robert and me."  Picking up my camera bag I hefted it onto my shoulder.  "You see, Robert doesn't care who.  As long as it's warm and lasts a long time.  Simple math!  One plus one plus one equals three.  That's us!"

     I grasped my hair getting tossed around by the wind, and twisted it into a knot.  From moisture in the air it had the texture of straw. 

     "The three of us," I shouted letting my hair go wild.  "Maybe we should.  After all, we do have the privilege of living in the free world."                                    

     "Not with a girl!"  Craig spit this out, yanking at the dark-blue V-neck of his white cable sweater; as if in that singular gesture he'd have more air to breathe.

     Craig.  Immaculate.  Dressed in his whites trimmed with navy.  A sailor on leave, I was thinking.  Lonely.  Combing the waterfront.  Searching for love and a good time.  Only to uncover Robert.  "Poor Craig," I whispered then, watching him.            

     "You two..." Craig was sputtering.  "You two just keep on with this simple math of yours!"  His boyish features had contorted.  "Fuck the both of you!"  A moment later he looked as if he might cry. 

     I was starting to feel bad.  Not exactly terrible, but bad enough; telling myself that Craig needed to hear the truth.  Truth being the one thing he'd never get from Robert.  Craig was owed the simple truth.  Wasn't he? 

     Picking at a double-stitched thread coming loose on the strap of my camera bag I argued back and forth with myself: Craig, being pure of heart, was owed the truth. 

     So he didn't want me in his bed.  That was his god-given right.  If he had said OK, I'm not sure I could have gone through with it.  Robert was one thing.  In a flash, Robert could turn all-male; making you forget that he generally preferred men; all things being equal.  Which, of course, they never were. 

     I thought of my twin brother Henry — dead more than ten years now.  Henry, born a few minutes after me, had earned the dubious distinction of being called second twin.  I grew up as the landlubber, while Henry's life had revolved around the ocean — fishing, surfing, sailing, diving its depths.  All done with a passion equal to Robert's passion for the same things. 

     It was those few extra minutes, Henry used to say, his deep eyes turning dreamy — those few extra minutes left floating alone in the amniotic fluid.  Believing it had bonded him, irrevocably, to the ocean.  And, Robert.

     When he died a lot of people naturally assumed it was Robert's fault — Robert having been with so many men.  But Henry was the second twin, he was born with a weak heart muscle.  Robert came onto the earth strong.  Lucky.  So far he has defied the gods.     

     "Craig..." I started toward him.  He broke out in a long shudder as if I were something horrible about to be foisted on him.  Shrugging, I turned toward Robert.  But Robert had his wallet open, busy counting his wad of cash.

     Craig fumbled for his cigarettes, taking one out then tossing it, unlit, into brackish water slapping the dock.  I began feeling chilled all over.  Looking down, I expected to see blood trickling down my legs.

     "Melissa," said Craig, breaking off to convulse into a hard, dry cough.  When he was done, his face an unholy red. 

     "You see Melissa has this need to diminish everything, to make herself bigger."  Craig spoke like I wasn't there.

     "How tall are you?"  He stuck his face close to mine.  "Five foot?" 

     "I happen to be five-three."  

     "Simple math," said Robert, grabbing Craig by the arm.

     Craig shook him off.  "Five-three in a pig's eye."  He was glaring at me. 

     At least he'd stopped looking like he was about to have a breakdown.  Robert, on the other hand, was practically preening,  enjoying all of it immensely.  That was the thing about Robert.  Henry once called him amoral.  Looking him over now I was thinking: You cocky bird. 

     He tore at the velcro closure on a deep side pocket of his shorts, the sound startling Craig.  "Easy does it," said Robert, winking and dropping the wallet into his pocket.  Then he crossed his arms, grinning, leaning back against a half-rotted post.  "Girls can be nice sometimes."     

     "Jesus, Robert!"  I yelled.

     "Clean girls like The Blonde,"  he went on.  "Natural blondes are cleanest.  Aren't you, babe?  A little on the dry side, not nearly as sloppy as those Mediterranean types."

     Craig had turned his back on us.  Now he shook his head hard and loose like some beast about to charge the dock.  "It's simple math!" he said spinning around, an unfamiliar rough edge to his voice.  After a moment his face went flat and he just looked miserable, scraping the sole of his top-sider back and forth across the splintery boards.  It rather stunned me.  When Henry was a little boy, whenever he got upset, he scraped his shoe against the ground in that same way.            

     "I could never make it with a woman."  Craig's voice had dropped almost to a whisper.  "Blonde or..." He stood there looking openly at Robert.  With nothing in the world left to protect him now.          

     From the roof of the bait house, a squadron of gulls, squalling, lifted off, flapping in formation out over the ocean.      

     Will you lighten-up I was about to tell Craig, when I heard Henry.  Henry coming through loud and clear: Melissa, isn't there enough cruelty in the world? 

     I swallowed down hard and squeezed my eyes shut.  When I finally opened them nothing much had changed.  Craig was still wounded.  Robert still Robert.  Despite all his exotic gear, Robert was no match for Henry.  Never had been.  And I looked at Craig, thinking:  You would have liked my brother.  Chances are, you would've loved him. 

     Chimes began ringing in my head — some mournful melodic form sounding ancient, distant, unborn.  It was my turn to feel sad. 

     Separating from the two men, I waved over my shoulder saying,  "Sayonara."  And I started down the long pier. 

     A few times Robert called out. 

     Where the pier ended, I stepped onto the shoulder of the road.  Unpleasant to walk on.  Beach grass scratching my legs, blown sand making uneven hills and ruts.  Menstrual cramps on the increase.  Sand finding a way into my sneakers.  Badly I needed hot coffee and a crisp crueller.  Two, even. 

     Over land the clouds seemed to be breaking up — the sky at last showing traces of true blue.  Not that it mattered.  My plan was to get something to eat then go back to the city.  Robert would be angry, refusing to drive me.  Robert had also refused Henry.  Many times.  Pushing him aside on a whim — for other men.  Refusal coming easy for Robert.  I knew better than to ask.