Having been apart since early morning, the sun and the ocean are anxious to reunite by the time we stroll into town. The port sparkles gold, every detail—of flowers, of cruise ships, of the large handsome man you walk next to—stands out crisp in the pearlescent air until the sun dips behind a hill and softens the whole world with one violet splash. The supermarket two streets back from the pier is already closed for the holiday, so we backtrack to the paved front street to pay larcenous souvenir market prices for two bottles of wine and the droopiest club sandwiches you ever saw. We clean out the bakery case of its last four sugary orejitas and something squishy and pink, and Cole spies a fresh bouquet among the racks of potato chips and machine-made imitation molas that looks to be the on
