Reminiscing.

About this time last year I was sitting at a bar in Naples, Florida. The billionaire was in the bathroom. I was twirling my hair about my fingers in the way I did when I became annoyed by his chronically small bladder and its requirement to be emptied at least four times an hour. It was humid and salty. I was wearing a short black dress, my legs tan from the last four days of sitting in the sand.

Matthew McConaughey sat down next to me at the bar. He glanced at me once as he ordered a margarita on the rocks. As he waited, he looked my way again, I laughed smugly. He asked me what I was in town for, although the abundant quantities of tourists from the Netherlands and Germany made it obvious that Naples was a popular place to spend the holidays. Deep sea fishing, I replied. He stared at me for a few moments. Me too, he replied, you catch anything? Nothing big enough to take home and mount on my wall. He shook his head, his famous crooked grin slowly creeping on his face. Can I get you a drink? No, I'm fine thanks, give my best to Camila, I said as I stood up and walked away to join the billionaire whose eyes were searching for me in the crowd.