I like what the city has done to you.

My jeans were cuffed and so were hers. It was one of those cool but overly-humid nights on the beach. We hadn't seen each other in two years, yet when we were reunited it was as if not even a day had passed. In our continuously drugged out states we would forever remain friends.

As we approached the path leading up to the hotel, I saw it before she did. I started out into a jog around the pool, my flip flops thumping loudly on the pavement. She let out a shriek and started running too. We threw our designer purses down into the dirt and the thought didn't even cross our minds that these were things of value. We only thought about the hammock we were running to. I pounced on it and told her to wait before she got on. I didn't want to be tipped. It took us five minutes before we were both settled into the hammock. I was not comfortable.

I said aloud, "I don't understand why hammocks are associated with paradise. You have to work to get in them. They are not comfortable."

We both burst out into laughter when we realized that I was bitching about hammocks. This is our friendship.