“I’m trying to live the best me I can be, and right now, that version is in fucking ecstasy, half-drunk chasing total drunk, thinking that there’s no better place in the world than Cuba,” she grinned widely, drinking one last shot down.
But the idea that the man had had a lot of women put an odd flavour on her tongue, something tickling the back of her brain. It felt weird to think of Ernest as anything other than a drinking partner who’d punched a dick for her honour and was better at dancing than he looked. Of course, he’d had women, she told herself. It wasn’t like he belonged to her or anything.
“So,” she said, hedging her bets, “One can maybe assume that you’re not married currently?” she asked, arching her eyebrow at him. He didn’t wear a wedding ring but that wasn’t exactly the norm for this era either. “Or in a relationship, given that you’re out drinking at 2am with a strange girl from Boston with her feet in the sand.”
She wasn’t sure where she was going with this. It was all gonna be a blur in the morning, but the rum was making her impetuous and bold, jealous where she had no right to be. But any woman would have done the same, felt the same, acted the same.