Cerasus Saltare

The ocean releases me reluctantly, saltwater streaming from my hair and skin as I wade through the shallows back to shore. My arms and thighs burn in that perfect way that tells me I pushed just hard enough - out past the breakers, parallel to the coast, until my muscles sang their protest and the sun turned the water into liquid gold around me. I shake my head, sending droplets scattering, and run my hands down my body to sweep away the excess water before it can soak into the sand clinging to my feet.

Four o'clock. Right on schedule.

The Driftwood sits exactly where it always does, a weathered shack of sun-bleached wood and rusted tin roof planted directly on the sand like it grew there. String lights crisscross overhead, not yet lit but waiting for dusk, and the bar itself is little more than a wide plank counter open to the beach on three sides. Behind it, Mateo is already pulling bottles down, prepping for the evening rush, his collection of Hawaiian shirts somehow both aggressively tacky and oddly charming. He spots me approaching and grins, already reaching for the rum.

I slide onto my usual stool - second from the left, the one with the wobbly leg I've learned to compensate for - and let my elbows rest on the warm wood. My sunglasses are pushed up into my wet hair, and I can feel the sun already starting to dry the salt into a fine film on my shoulders. The crucifix around my neck catches the light, glinting gold against my tan skin, and I adjust it absently while Mateo works.

"You're a saint, Mateo," I say, my voice warm and lazy, still half-lost in the rhythm of the swim. "What would I do without you?"

He says something back - probably another one of his terrible jokes, something about saints and sinners - but I'm only half-listening, my attention drifting out over the water. The beach is starting to fill with the late-afternoon crowd: clusters of people sprawled on towels, a group passing a joint in a loose circle, someone's speaker playing something low and hypnotic that blends with the sound of the waves. La Gorce in its natural state. Beautiful, unbothered, exactly as it should be.

Mateo slides the Saltare Sunset across the bar, the glass already beading with condensation, the liquid inside layered in shades of coral and amber with that perfect float of dark rum on top. I wrap my fingers around it, the chill biting pleasantly against my palm, and take that first sip - passionfruit and lime and summer itself, exactly the way I like it.

Perfect. Like always.