Cleopatra, languid, drips her fingers off the hammock. The sea breeze leaves salty residue on her gold bangles. Waiting.

She feigns importance while she anticipates her fix. Her wrists twitch. Five minutes. An hour.

Many men in white pressed linen drift out on the deck to attend to her needs. They have not forgotten, it is coming.

Several hours later, it is ready. Cleopatra is stiff. In the crystal flute, the cranberries of Southern Chile, pressed, pulpy, and mixed with organic sugar cane from Australia. Frosted with Scandinavian snow, the glass is served.

Her wrists relax, eyelids droop. She sips.


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