The hurricane came unexpectedly. The ship went down and was lost. The man found himself swept up on the shore of an island with no other people, no supplies, nothing to do. Only bananas and coconuts.
So for the next four months he ate bananas, drank coconut juice and longed for his old life.
He fixed his gaze on the sea, hoping to spot a rescue ship. One day, as he was lying on the beach,
he spotted movement out of the corner of his eye. It was a rowboat, and in it was the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen. She rowed up to him.
In disbelief, he asked her: “Where did you come from? How did you get here?”
“I rowed from the other side of the island,” she said. “I landed here when my cruise ship sank.”
“Amazing,” he said. “I didn’t know anyone else survived. How many are there?
You were lucky to have a rowboat wash up with you."
"Its only me,” she said, ” and the rowboat
didn’t wash up; nothing did.” He was confused. “Then how did you get the rowboat?”
“Oh, simple,” replied the woman. “I made the rowboat out of materials that I found on the island.
The oars were whittled from Gum tree branches. I wove the bottom from palm branches and the sides and stern came from a Eucalyptus tree.”
“B-B-But that’s impossible,” stuttered the man. “You had no tools or hardware. How did you manage?"
"Oh, that was no problem,” replied the woman. “On the other side of the island there is a very unusual rock formation exposed. I found that if I fired it to a certain temperature in my kiln, it melted into iron. I used that for tools, and used the tools to make the hardware.”
“But enough of that,” she said. “Where do you live?” Sheepishly, he confessed that he had been
sleeping on the beach the whole time. “Well, let’s row over to my place, then.” she said.
After a few minutes of rowing she docked the boat at a small wharf. As the man looked to the shore,
he nearly fell out of the boat. Before him was a stone walk leading to an exquisite bungalow painted in blue and white. While the woman tied up the rowboat with an expertly woven hемр rope, the man could only stare ahead, dumbstruck.
As they walked into the house, she said casually, “It’s not much, but I call it home. Sit down, please;
would you like a drink?"
"No, no thank you,” he said, still dazed. “I can’t take any more coconut juice."
"It’s not coconut juice,” the woman replied. “I have a still. How about a Pina Colada?”
Trying to hide his amazement, the man accepted, and they sat down on her couch to talk.
After they had exchanged their stories, the woman announced, “I’m going to slip into something comfortable. Would you like to take a shower and shave? There is a razor upstairs in the bathroom.” No longer questioning anything, the man went into the bathroom. There in the cabinet was a razor made from a воnе handle. Two shells honed to a hollow ground edge were fastened
onto it’s end. “This woman is amazing,” he thought. “What next?”
When he returned, she greeted him wearing nothing but vines and smelling faintly of gardenias.
She beckoned for him to sit down next to her. “Tell me,” she began, suggestively, slithering closer to him, “we’ve been out here for a very long time. You’ve been lonely. There’s something I’m sure you really feel like doing right now, something you’ve been longing for all these months. You know…” She stared into his eyes.
He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“You mean-?” he replied,
“I can check my Facebook from here?”

Dear Connie, …

I know the counsellor said we should’t contact each other during our “cooling off” period, but I could’t wait anymore.

The day you left, I swore I’d never talk to you again but that was just the wounded little boy in me talking. Still, I never wanted to be the first one to make contact. In my fantasies, it was always you who would come crawling back to me. I guess my pride needed that. But now I see that me pride’s cost me a lot of things. I’m tired of pretending I don’t miss you. Maybe it’s time we let our hearts speak as loudly as our hurt. …

This is what my heart says: “There’s no one like you, Connie. I look for you in the eyes and вrеаsтs of every woman I see, but they’re not you. They’re not even close.
Two weeks ago, I met this girl at Flamingos and brought her home with me. I don’t say this to hurt you, but just to illustrate the depth of my desperation. She was young, maybe 19; with one of those perfect bodies that only youth and maybe a childhood spent ice skating can give you. I mean, just a perfect body. Тiтs like you wouldn’t believe and an аss that just wouldn’t quit. Every man’s dream, right?
As I sat on the couch being blown by this stunner, I thought, look at the stuff we’ve made important in our lives. It’s all so superficial. What does a perfect body mean? Does it make her better in bed? Well, in this case, yes, but you see what I’m getting at. Does it make her a better person? Does she have a better heart that my moderately attractive Connie? I doubt it. And I’d never really thought of that before. I don’t know, maybe I’m just growing up a little.
Later, after I’d tossed her about a half a pint of throat yogurt, I found myself thinking, “Why do I feel so drained and empty?” It wasn’t just her flawless technique or her slutty, shameless hunger, but something else. Some nagging feeling of loss. Why did it feel so incomplete? And then it hit me. It didn’t feel the same because you weren’t there to watch. Do you know what I mean? Nothing feels the same without you. Jesus, Connie, Im just going crazy without you. And everything I do just reminds me of you.
Do you remember Carol, that single mom we met at the Holiday Inn last year? Well, she dropped by last week with a pan of lasagna. She said she figured I wasn’t eating right without a woman around. I didn’t know what she meant till later, but that’s not the real story. Anyway, we had a few glasses or wine and the next thing you know, we’re ваnging away in our old bedroom. And this таrт’s a total monster in the sack. She’s giving me everything, you know, like a real woman does when she’s not hung up about her weight or her career and whether the kids can hear us. And all of a sudden, she spots that tilting mirror on your grandmother’s old vanity. So she puts it on the floor and we straddle it, right, so we can watch ourselves. And it’s totally hot, but it makes me sad, too because I can’t help thinking, “Why didn’t Connie ever put the mirror on the floor? We’ve had this old vanity for what, 14 years, and we never used it as a sеx toy.”
Saturday, your little sister drops by with my copy of the restraining order. I mean, Vicki’s just a kid and all, but she’s got a pretty good head on her shoulders and she’s been a real friend to me during this painful time. She’s given me lots of good advice about you and about women in general. She’s pulling for us to get back together. Connie, she really is.
So we’re doing Jell-O shots in a hot bubble bath and talking about happier times. Here’s this teenage girl with the same DNA as you and all I can do is think of how much she looked like you when you were 18. And that just about makes me cry. And then it turns out Vicky’s really into that whole аnаl thing, that gets me to thinking about how many times I pressured you about trying it and how that probably fueled some of the bitterness between us. But do you see how even then, when I’m thrusting inside your baby sister’s cinnamon ring, all I can do it think of you?
It’s true, Connie. In your heart you must know it. Don’t you think we could start over? Just wipe out all the grievances away and start fresh? I think we can. If you feel the same please, please, please let me know.
Otherwise, can you let me know where the fuскing remote is?