“Christmas on Easter Island”

Here’s the worst vacation idea I’ve ever had. Why not spend Christmas on Easter Island with my ice-cold, estranged wife and her professionally picky parents? I can’t think of a reason why not, that’s why not. After all, it’s Christmas, and Easter, they’re Jewish, I’m an atheist, it’s off-season and I have miles.

This morning we’re going to look at heads. Never thought I’d say that. I’ll endeavor not to knock them over like gigantic dominoes as I back up blindly in our rental car with the steering on the wrong side. And I’m sure there will be no comments from Janet’s parents from the back seat. None.

Look, everyone: heads! On the left: some heads. And on the right, more heads. It’s crazy they only recently discovered they have bodies too, buried in the sand.

We get back to the hotel as it’s starting to rain, and too late for lunch. TV choices are limited. Shower water is brackish and never gets above lukewarm. Room service takes two and a half hours. Dinner isn’t until six. It’s three. My wife and I have a double with two queens; her parents have one king in the adjacent room and we heard them fucking last night. Which is awkward considering I haven’t touched their daughter in 2 years.

But as we lay together, on separate beds, looking at the TV and listening to the rain, I feel that right now—right at this moment—there’s a chance. If I just turn to her and tell her I still love her and I want to make this work and I think she is so beautiful and sexy and I’m sorry and I miss her so much.

But the moment passes and we bury our bodies back in the sand.

About Peter Hurtgen

Pete’s an Irish/German Americano, born in Chicago, whelped in DC, forged in the furnace of FLA, lost his F and now's in just LA. He has a collection of things and is a hardcore stuff enthusiast. His fiction can currently be seen in Number Eleven and Cahoodaloodaling (probably by accident).