The Empty Ship

I stand on the stage of the theatre, the microphone heavy in my right hand, and look out at the dark rows of seats. The ship is empty. Every passenger is ashore in Dubrovnik, chasing the light of a summer festival that doesn’t care about our schedules or our sleep cycles. The only other person on the boat is Danny. He sits in the third row, center aisle, swinging his legs back and forth. He runs the deck games—cornhole, giant Jenga, the chaotic scramble of organized fun for tourists who think they are on vacation. I run the quizzes. We are entertainment staff. We share a cabin the size of a wardrobe because the ship is at capacity. We have eleven weeks left in this contract.

Danny stops swinging his legs. He looks up at me, his dark hair falling into eyes that are already amused. He is wearing his crew polo, the collar loose, his forearms tense even at rest. He checks his watch, a habit he has when he is bored.

I drop the mic to its stand. The click echoes in the vast, silent room. I kick off my heels, one by one, and step to the edge of the stage. The rivalry between us is real; I chose it because it keeps me sharp, because I do not like standing still. But tonight, the ship is ours. The air is still and warm, smelling of lemon polish and distant salt. I point at him.