For an instance I thought about leaving the island with him. He came with satisfaction, an unsaid promise of never harming me again, with his twinkling eyes. The attendants laid out the linen table, colored ivory, adorning it with a bouquet of flowers. The island had everything one needed. It was soaked in sunshine nearly everyday and the ocean fed the cliffs of forest and jungle. They placed silver utensils and crystal glasses. They built a make shift tent overhead. Everything was nearly perfect. The pig was roasting, wrapped in layers of foil, with hot coals buried in the sand. I could go with him, he said, away from the island and never be alone again. I adored him. His face. His hands. His tank like body with their broad shoulders and alabaster skin. His face was made of fired clay. I could crack open that face of his with a hammer and pull the clay off, eat the dirt behind and underneath it. Shove my fingers so far down into his dirt filled head and pull out the earth in handfuls. Cut gems were put in his eyes. I could go with him, he said, and leave the island forever. The scrumptious feast ended. I was full from the pork, the crab, the mango and coconut, thick cream. I was exhausted from the wind and the sun. I was exhausted from all of the love making, and all he did was listen and plead with me to get onto his boat and leave the island. He returned to the yacht, anchored off the coast, alone, waiting until im ready to leave this little and lonely, but safe, island though.