Under the Bali Moon

Zena felt so rejuvenated by the bedtime discussion with Zola that she woke up in time for sunrise, endured a five-mile jog through the homey village outside Mahatma House, showered, blew out her hair and still managed to be the first person at the breakfast table. She wore a loose-fitting yellow beach dress and slid a red hibiscus she’d plucked during her jog behind her right ear.

The house chef greeted Zena with a cup of green tea that seemed oddly comforting in the early heat that invaded the outdoor dining area. She slid a plate of sliced exotic fruit onto the table and took Zena’s breakfast order.

After a while, Adan entered. He was wearing a pair of Hawaiian print blue-and-white swimming trunks and no shirt.

Zena glanced and looked away quickly. How odd was it that he wasn’t wearing a shirt? How odd was it that he was there?

She counseled herself that perhaps she should’ve expected these two things: his presence, his nude and muscular chest.

Zena suddenly hated herself for getting to the breakfast table first. She also hated herself for not having a T-shirt for Adan in her bag.

“Morning, Z,” Adan said, now standing beside Zena with his nude chest still wet from the pool.

He kissed her on the cheek and sat in the chair next to her as if he’d been doing this every morning of eve

ry day of the year.

The chef brought his green tea and took his breakfast order.

“You see Zola and Alton?” Zena asked. When she’d gotten to the room after her run, Zola wasn’t in the bed. She assumed Zola slipped off to Alton’s room.

“Yeah. They were arguing about something way too early this morning,” Adan revealed.

“Really? About what?” Zena leaned toward Adan but then quickly masked her interest.

“No clue. I heard Zola shout ‘condo’ and ‘credit,’ and I pulled my pillow over my head.”

Zena smirked and flexed her pinkie as she took the next sip from her tea.

“I also saw you running earlier. I was going to join you, but a brother is a little too slow these days.” Adan rubbed his stomach playfully. Zena watched as his fingers grazed his perfect abs and held back from swooning. “All work and no working out makes Adan a fat man!”

Zena found herself laughing. Adan could be funny. He could be really funny sometimes.

“You’re not fat,” she said. “Not at all.” Her voice let on that she’d gotten an eyeful of his body.

“Stop lying to me.”

“I’m serious. You’re in great shape.”

“So, you think I’m sexy?” Adan teased as he moved his hands back behind his head and flexed.

“I never said anything about ‘sexy.’” Zena rolled her eyes.

“Guess that’s a no.” Adan frowned and lowered his arms.

Laughing again, Zena realized then that she was having a conversation with Adan. She was in Bali, sitting at a table eating star fruit with her ex and having a civil conversation. And everything was okay.

“You’re pushing it,” Zena said sternly.

“Maybe I’m trying to push it.”

Just in time, two plates of what the chef had called “American Breakfast”—omelets, potatoes, bacon—were slid onto the table before Zena and Adan.

“No rice for you, either?” Adan asked.

“I don’t get it. I can’t eat rice for breakfast. Sue me!” Zena held up her hands.

“I agree. America wins this battle. All of Asia loses! I mean, rice for breakfast?”