It was a dark and stormy night on the archipelago. Cassandra and Hector were stationed at the recently-renovated Four Seasons Hotel, the windows of which were luxuriously decorated with turquoise curtains of the finest silk organza, the white marble floors cool on their bare feet. Music played — was it Wagner? — on a piano in the lobby. The breeze wore a salty scarf.

“Hector,” said Cassandra from the window seat that overlooked the ocean vista, “I really admire your cashmere suit jacket.” He was wearing it open; his chest hair waved in the mild wind like a crop of silver wheat after an early Idaho frost.

“Thank you, Cassandra,” said Hector in a commanding but jovial tone. “And I of course admire that beautiful Hermes wrap dress.” It had cost her lots of hundreds of dollars, as did everything she owned. Hector called for another bottle of vintage Dom Perignon and four jars of Beluga caviar.

“Right away, Mister Donalvue,” said the waitress, a fetching young woman wearing a black Chanel minidress.

“That’s Captain Donalvue,” corrected Hector. “I am a very famous, rich sea captain, which of course you know, but forgot in the heat of things.”

“Yes, life on the archipelago gets into your brain,” said the waitress ominously. “Sand gets in there, and it chafes up the lobes and gradually erodes the synapses, until finally —”

“Shhhh,” urged Cassandra. “We’re on vacation.” She fingered her 29-karat diamond earrings with a manicured hand.

“Even if you’re on va—” began the waitress. Hector flung a throw pillow at the waitress’s head.

“I command you to shut up!” cried Hector. Presently the waitress left to fetch the caviar and champagne. “I can’t bear to hear the locals complain,” complained Hector into his empty flute. “They live on a galdarned archipelago. Their lives are gold flake and manta rays. Why can’t they be satisfied?”

“They envy us the hustle-bustle,” suggested Cassandra, “the urban lives we lead and leave behind for restful hammocking and general vacationing.”

“Probably,” agreed Hector. “You know, speaking of, I can’t really recall when our flight is, darling.”

“Our flight? Why, of course it’s…Tuesday. Isn’t it Tuesday?”

Hector’s soft-yet-angular brow was furrowed. “Wait,” he said, “what is the date of today.” Cassandra was twisting her platinum wedding band, accented with Peruvian sapphires.

“I think I’ve honestly forgotten,” she said. “Usually that means it’s Sunday.”

“Hum,” said Hector. “Very strange.”

The waitress arrived with a tray of smoked salmon and four Belgian beers.

“Here it is,” she said. “This is it.”

“That isn’t what we ordered,” said Hector. “I mean I don’t think it is.”

“This looks fine,” said Cassandra. “Who cares, after all. Dear,” she said to the waitress, “what day is it today?”

“I don’t know,” said the waitress. She leaned down and whispered into Cassandra’s ear, a glorious ear shaped just like a French pastry, “Get out of here while you still can.”

“Yes,” said Cassandra. “Yes, I think we must.” The waitress departed. Hector scooped some smoked salmon onto a piece of bread, the dark bitter kind, he couldn’t remember the name.

“Hector,” said Cassandra urgently, then took a sip of beer to whet her whistle. The beer was delicious. A slice of mineola tangelo floated in its foam. A sprig of mint sat on the slice. What a funny idea, thought Cassandra.

“What is it?” asked Hector.

“Nothing,” said Cassandra. “I can’t remember.”