Chapter summary: What do you send to a girl who has everything, like: the hot sun, a big gun, desert sand, and wolf spiders? And where do you send it to? Ooh! I know! Cookies! Everybody loves cookies! And pics. Of me. Making cookies. Just, you know, because. That's all. Um, quit looking at me like that!

The next few days were the most heart-wrenching God-awful days in my life that I ever experienced. And you know why? Because nothing happened!

I ... I, like, had to contact her. Contact who? you ask. Lauren, if you've been under a rock the last week or so. You know: the girl who got drunk and knifed me.

I didn't even get to hear her pickup lines.

Army girl? Army grrl? I'm almost afraid to imagine them: "Hey, dragon lady, wanna sucky-fucky? I got a fiver with your name on it, babes!"

I know, right? Ugh!

So why couldn't I get her out of my God-damn head?

Like there was anything else going on in this Island paradise to distract me.

And I so could have gone the distraction route, if the bar didn't practically run itself. People have jobs. They get paid. They get fired, and what do they do? They get a new job, because the last one worked so well for them.

And people go to college, why? To get a job they hate, working with people they hate, and if you're a woman, it's like twenty times worse!

At least at the bar, you pretty much know what you're dealing with. The pick-up lines I've heard, the looks I've gotten.

Being a pretty girl actually hurts, sometimes. People ... men ... treat you more like an object and forget they're ogling a living, breathing person who has thoughts in her head, you know?

But try reminding these guys in the military of that sometimes.

'Hello! I'm a person with thoughts and feelings here!'

Their response? 'Uh, yeah. So ya wanna fuck now, or after you close up?'

Neanderthals! I'm like, okay, God gave men brains for what reason? The only working head these guys have is the one between their legs, and, after the drinks they consumed little johnny's not working tonight, either, so you have to wonder why they're hitting on me, with a wedding ring as plain as day on their finger. Or no wedding ring, but ... seriously! ... did you just graduate high school and decided the first thing to do on liberty, besides covering over your voice breaking, was to get yourself laid with the pretty bar keep?

I mean, are you seriously planning to lose your virginity tonight with me, because it's so not happening, Johnny Angel.

But thank you for the cheap compliments to my body, it's not like I haven't heard them three or four times ... today. 'A' for effort, though. Keep trying, you try-hards.

God! I swear!

It wouldn't be half so bad if they didn't egg each on. Like, do they think I'm deaf or something?

Maybe that would help everybody, but no, I'm not deaf, and the side bets on you getting lucky with me tonight are just so flattering.

That's sarcasm, by the way. Have you ever heard that word, Johnny-boy? You did go to high school, right? So you know what sarcasm means, right?

Joy.

But at least these kids are upfront about it, but you go to work, and it's all innuendo and implication. "Oh, Sally sucked my dick, so for you to keep your job, you have to take it up the ass."

Notice I didn't say 'promotion.' No, these days you have to bend over to keep your job, and promotions, these days are new title, new responsibilities, and more work, but more money? Sorry, but you haven't matured enough in your position to justify a slap to the face, known as a 2.5% raise.

My bar? I didn't have to put up with that shit, brown-nosing the boss to keep my job, I dealt with boys who thought they were men because the walked around in greens or blues and hung out with each other, and I dealt with the occasional drunk that I had to cut off, but ... but those were real problems with people being real. Being real jerks, but at least they were being real, and they were happy or sad, blowing off steam, so, really, I was helping them deal with the shit in their lives, so they could keep doing that, knowing they could come here, get a drink or few, so they could go back to do it again.

And for that I made a ton of money. A bar? You buy beer and liquor at how much and sell it at two, three, four, five dollars a glass ... and shots of rare whiskey, twenty dollars a glass? And rent? I owned the bar, outright (thanks, Dad), but even if I didn't, I'd still be making lots. AND I get tips.

Why do people work at jobs, struggling to get by, when they could open up a bar, or ... strip club (ton of money in those. A ton.) (Not my thing. I mean, I'd die of embarrassment, but ... yeah), or ... something, anything.

But no. They go to school to learn that they have to get a job, and that's exactly what they do, going into the military so they get technical training, so they can get a job, or going right into the workforce to be a fuck-me-up-the-ass-boss-man secretary (Oh, excuse me: 'administrative assistant') or a oh-I'm-a-big-wig vice president of a bank branch, pulling down all of twenty-five thousand dollars a year.

And that's what these kids join the armed forces for, to go to Afghanistan or wherever to get blown to bits so we can stay home, nice and cozy, and do the 9-to-5 thing, go to 'happy' hour afterwards, and they're happy, actually, but why? Because they've left work. But then they go right home, sleep it off and go right back to work the next day.

I am so, so blessed my dad opened this bar, and I was a little girl, at his knee, watching him and learning how just a little bit of ... you know: American spirit! Independence and know-how and self-reliance just beat the whole job thing over the head with a big, ugly stick.

Sure, I worked hard, every day, and I couldn't 'call in sick,' because I was actually needed, whereas at your job, you call in sick? They don't care! That's why they can fire you and call in somebody who looks just like you and pay them five-thousand dollars less. You're replaceable because your job is pointless, really.

The movie Office Space had it right, if all you do is shuffle around reports, then ... well, somebody else can do that, too.

But if I didn't have my bar ... well, they tried that at Prohibition. Didn't work.

So, I'm needed.

But it's not exactly rocket science what I do. Supply, demand, service.

I had been living my life on autopilot before the blonde psychopath waltzed into my bar, and I knew that, but now ...

I still knew it, but now the dullness and listlessness had something gnawing away at me, at the edge of my consciousness.

Lauren Mallory.

And I had time on my hands.

So, the laptop called to me.

And I wanted to call her. So I googled it. I looked up 'how to skype with my husband in Afghanistan.'

Yeah, you read that right. 'Husband.' It's not like ...

Okay, it's not like anything, okay? It's not like I have a thing for her, or anything, so just keep your God-damn superior judgments to yourself! I wrote 'husband' in the google search because, you know, that's what I guess people did. The husband went off to Afghanistan and the wife wanted to talk with him through skype. I was sure there'd be tons of hits on that.

The problem was, there was.

But they all presupposed one thing. They presupposed you had her skype account information.

I didn't even know if Lauren had a skype account. So how could I call her own skype if I didn't know her skype information? What was I going to do? Call her for it?

My problem was I was ... too old to know about skype and ... I don't know, snapchat and everything. I was just born at the wrong age, just before all this technology took the world by storm, but I was too young not to know about it all, and if I asked anybody, 'well, how does skype work?' I'd get a look like: what? are you a retard? It's skype!

And I looked at everybody, and yes, I had email and was on facebook, but somehow I felt everyone, even moms with kids and senior citizens, and don't even get me thinking about teenagers who got to live their teenage years as teenagers, not helping behind the bar like me ... or college kids who slept (around) at the dorm, and who didn't go home every night to mom and dad, because they didn't want the loose morals of college affecting me.

News flash: it did.

But, although I'm no virgin, I still felt like an ... outsider, just watching everybody else live their lives, and not getting to experience any of it for myself.

And I was paying for that now. Because of just asking Lauren for her phone number or email, or getting her skype account before she left (does she have one?), I was stymied by Filipina mores. A girl doesn't ask for a phone number. A girl doesn't take one.

And here I was. A girl. A grown woman-girl, utterly helpless now because I didn't have the guts or I didn't act quickly when I should have.

I didn't even know I had to.

That's what I felt like. That's what I looked like: fucking clueless, and it was my own damn fault. And a quick internet search didn't fix my problem for me, like I wanted it to, and I didn't know who to turn to for help.

I mean, like: Ted? Come on.

Or my friends?

Confession-time.

I don't ... have friends. I didn't have friends in high school. I didn't have friends in college. I didn't want to be labeled 'Asian-Pacific Islander' because I'm American, God damn it! So I didn't hang out with that crowd nor join the club. And I'm not haole: I can't pass for it, and Asians who hang out with white people?

Wannabes!

Or worse.

And helping at the bar took my whole life. The bar was my social life, just as it was my dad's, so ...

So, yeah. I didn't have any friends. I don't have any friends.

So I don't have anybody to ask for help.

So, what the fuck can I do now, God damn it!

"Sophie, what the fuck can you do!" I whispered desperately.

Then it hit me.

Lauren left her address at the hospital.

Oh, my God! I could, honest-to-God, send her a real mail. You know: a snail-mail, not an email!

Except for the fact that I didn't copy down her information at the hospital.

I was on the phone to Wahiawa hospital in seconds flat.

"Aloha, Wahiawa hospital administration," said a kind, loving voice on the other side of the phone.

You see the difference? Mainlanders are professionals. Hawaiians are ... love, and it felt just so comforting hearing the hospital staffer's voice on the other side of the phone, because I knew she cared.

"Aloha," I said, relieved, "hi, I was at the hospital a couple of days ago to get some stitches from a nasty cut I got? ... and I just wanted to see the doctor who saw me, just to be sure everything was okay? It was Doctor Lam," I added helpfully.

"Yaah," the girl drawled. "You could see your primary-care physician about that? The doctors on our staff don't normally do follow-up appointments."

Her voice lilted as she stated the rules.

But rules are for haoles. Hawaii is aloha ... for Hawaiians, that is.

My voice lilted and became younger, more ... child-like and innocent.

"Yaah," I said, "... but I don't have a primary-care physician, and I was hoping please, please, please could I see Dr. Lam, because she was so kind when she helped me plenty, and I just want to make sure I'm not getting the wound infected or something like that, yaah, and please?"

"Well ..." the woman on the other side considered.

And I so had her.

But I refused to gloat as I gave her my personal details and got the appointment.

See, that's how you get things done ... in Hawaii, anyway, ... not with an assertion of rights or demands, but with the lilt.

The lilt and a kind word was a Hawaiian's superpower.

"Mahalo!" I said as the phone conversation concluded. "Mahalo plenty and thank you so much for helping me!" and she could hear the smile in my voice.

"Yaah, well, don't be late, huh, love?" she scolded gently. "Respect Dr. Lam's time, yaah. Aloha."

And she rung off.

But I could hear the smile in her voice, too.

You're supposed to obey the rules, and you're a naughty girl if you don't, so she got to scold me, even as she helped me.

I sighed as I cradled the phone. The appointment was for tomorrow. What would I do with myself until then?

...

So, I went to Starbucks.

"Yaah," I said to the barista, "so, I have a friend in military in Afghanistan, and I was wondering if Starbucks has a program that ships coffee to soldiers over there?"

I had done my homework. There had been this big stink that Starbucks wasn't supporting the military overseas, and they came out with this statement that, yes, they were, and how many tons of coffee they sent to Afghanistan in "Operation Caffeination," but it didn't say how I could get coffee sent over there, to a particular soldier, ... so she would know it would be from me.

"Oh," she said, "I don't know about that. But somebody did come in a while back and ordered a lot of coffee to be sent there, and we gave him a little discount, so you could do that."

I paused, confused, looking at her stoney face.

This was Starbucks program? I buy the coffee and they'll give me a slight discount if I buy a lot of it? And, what? I'd have to figure out how to package in and mail it off myself?

Starbucks. It was just so ... arrgh! unhelpful!

"Uh, mahalo," I said, taken back. "I'll ... I'll think about it more, 'kay. Mahalo."

She shrugged a whatever carelessly. She had other customers to serve, and didn't have time for the little Filipina asking her questions.

I left Starbucks hurt and deflated.

I thought ...

I thought we cared about our soldiers more than that. What, was Afghanistan old news now?

I went home and looked about myself. I wanted to send a care package of coffee to Lauren but Starbucks was too big and corporate to care about little me and what I wanted.

Maybe another coffee house would ... care more?

Or maybe I would just have to make my own care package?

What would Lauren want?

I was ashamed to say I had no idea.

But ... chocolate chip cookies, maybe? I mean, who wouldn't want that coming in a care package. And they wouldn't be fresh from the oven, but ... homemade chocolate chip cookies?

That was the ticket.

I got busy. I prepared my own special batch, nice and tall and almost ... fluffy with the extra butter I mixed in, and I took a couple of selfies as I stirred the ingredients in my big mixing bowl and then placed the rack of cookies into the oven.

And, yes, in case you were wondering, we do have ovens in Hawaii, okay? We don't sit around all day eating and drinking just raw coconuts. I mean: this is America, too, in case you didn't get that update.

The cookies came out and the whole house smelled just yummy! And I was tempted, after the cookies cooled a bit, to have one for myself.

Okay, more than tempted.

But I had to make sure they were all right for Lauren, didn't I?

I put, like, three dozen cookies in plastic bags, and put those bags in a plain, brown shipping box. No beer cases, thanks! I didn't want the law breathing down my neck for shipping alcohol internationally, and wasn't Afghanistan Muslim? There's probably laws against sending alcohol there anyway.

Oh, poor Lauren! Months without a drink? How would she survive?

I smirked at my little evil pleasure at her plight.

Well, serves her right for all the trouble she caused me!

Payback, Lauren. It's a bitch, isn't it?

Okay! I then printed out my selfies and put them in the bottom of the box.

Oh, one of them I was sticking my tongue out in embarrassment. I do that sometimes.

I wondered if I should not include that one, but it did make me look kind of cute.

I left it in.

On top of the cookies I put a couple of bags of ground Kona-blend coffee, one plain, the other coconut roast, and then, of course, this was from Hawaii, so I also included a box of chocolate macadamia nuts.

Hm. Was I overdoing the chocolate?

Nah. It looked like she know how to take care of her girlish figure. She'd probably manage this with her iron will and determination, just like she managed everything else.

I smirked again, thinking of her steel will losing out during a particularly bad day during the month when she just had to have chocolate NOW! and there'd my box be, under her bunk, and ...

Heh-heh-heh! I snickered as I imaged her will crumble in the face of homemade chocolate chip cookies. Take that, Lauren, Miss Bossy!

I liked helping out with this care package.

Perhaps a bit too much, but hey, I'm Filipino. I take care of you by giving you food. Deal with it.

I wrote a little note saying that I hoped this care package helped and signed it: Sophie.

I looked at the note.

P.S. I added quickly. I wanted to skype you, but I don't know how to do that. How does skype work over there? Please let me know.

And I left my email address, blushing at my boldness as I wrote it out.

I put the note in the care package and sealed it.

Now to get her address.

...

Dr. Lam was patient and meticulous, ... and kind, ... as she examined my cut and the stitches.

"You're doing just fine, dear," she said. "Just, when you shower, try to avoid getting the area wet, and if you do just pat it dry afterward."

"Oh, okay," I said. "Thank you, Doctor, for seeing me again."

"No problem," she said, and removed her latex gloves.

I got up to go.

"That is a nasty wound," she said.

"Um, yeah," I said. I barely noticed it now, as I had gotten used the tightness of it, and was just careful turning my head, but otherwise I was fine if I were careful.

Dr. Lam looked at me critically. "How did you get it?"

"Uh," I said.

I wasn't prepared to answer that question.

"It looks like it came from a knife," she said carefully.

"I ..." I couldn't breathe suddenly.

Dr. Lam regarded me, and I found myself unable to escape her knowing eyes.

"You don't look like someone who would get into a knife-fight," she pursued, "so, I have to ask you, are you being abused?"

"Oh," I said. "Uh, no! No, I'm not!"

"You sure?" she demanded. "You can tell me, and you'll be safe. I don't see a ring on your finger, so is it your parents, sweetie?"

"No," I said, on a little safer ground, but nowhere safe in this institution with a doctor who cared about my safety ...

... And what she would do to ensure it.

"No," I said, "my parents have been dead for years, ma'am. I'm not being abused by them. I never was."

"Do you cohabit with someone, a boyfriend or partner?" Dr. Lam asked.

"N-no," I said. "No, Doctor, I just ... I just ..."

Now I just wanted to get the hell out of here!

"I just live by myself," I got out.

"Then how did you get that?" Dr. Lam pressed. "How did you get hurt, honey?"

"I ..." I started, but then I almost broke down. "Please, may I go now, Doctor, please?"

Dr. Lam regarded me critically, and I could see the wheels turning in her head.

She sighed.

"Okay," she said, finally, "but please take this ..."

She wrote down a number on a prescription slip which she carefully voided.

"This is a number to a crisis hotline," she explained. "You can call it at anytime if you feel you may get hurt again or if you don't feel safe, okay, sweetie?"

"Yes," I said breathlessly, grabbing the slip from her. "Mahalo, doctor. Thank you for seeing me again."

I couldn't get away from her fast enough.

And as quickly as I walked, I couldn't outrun her eyes following me as I left.

...

I verified the billing with outpatient care. Lauren would get socked, again, with another bill.

Or did the Military pick that up? I didn't know. But ... she would know that I had to follow up, right?

I didn't know the answer to that question, either.

But this time, I did get the a copy of the invoice.

And, yes, Lauren's information, including her address, was on it.

I left the hospital cringing, feeling like I was some criminal for getting hurt.

...

Next up, I went home, got the care package and went to the post office. I wrote out her address carefully using a Sharpie pen, and added at the bottom "AFGHANISTAN," so they would know where to send it, and it would reach Lauren more quickly, or so I hoped.

The postal worker looked at my package and scowled.

"No, love," she said frowning at me, and she blacked out the word 'Afghanistan.'

"Huh?" I asked, hurt.

"You write that, and it gets taken up by the U.S. Post Office and sent overseas that way, and goes through customs and needs international postage at international rates."

I thought that's what was supposed to happen. I looked at the postal worker helplessly.

"See, it'll take forever to get there that way." she explained, "but this is an A.P.O, that's a U.S. address."

"But I want it to go to Afghanistan," I put in. "That's where the soldier is now."

"Yes," she said, "that's what will happen. The Army knows this and routes it to the Army Base there, and they'll do it wiki-wiki!" She used the Hawaiian word: quick-quick. "But it's still considered an Army address so you just pay U.S. rates and the Army picks it up and handles it much faster than if it went through standard international mail, understand me, sweetie?"

"Oh," I said, surprised out of my anger and confusion. This clerk was actually helping me, I realized. She was being mean about it, but she was helping me. "Ah, okay," I said, "Mahalo. I didn't know."

"Obviously," she almost snarled as she breathed out this big postal-worker sigh, as if I were the five hundredth customer who got this wrong.

But then I thought: well, maybe I was.

She told me the rate, which was very reasonable for a box full of goodies going to Afghanistan, so I paid and gave her a grateful smile.

She thawed, slightly, and smiled back.

I left the post office feeling on top of the world! I had just sent SPC Lauren Mallory a box of cookies and stuff.

And pics. Of me! ... just making cookies, but still! Eeek! What was I thinking?

I was blushing now as I was floating out of the post office, and I scurried out of there, too, suddenly shy and embarrassed.

I guess that's what I do now, get myself in trouble and scurry away.

This new, interesting life was just so unpredictable! I don't think I like it at all.

So why was I smiling so hard now?

...

I checked my email like ... three-thousand times, looking for Lauren's email. The first twenty times after I got home from the post office, and then I realized what I was doing.

So I looked up online how long a package would take to get Afghanistan. I was scared that it would be something like two to three months, right? That's how long international mail took, wasn't it?

Seven days. A package to an A.P.O. in Afghanistan (or anywhere, I guess. 'A.P.O.' meant 'Anywhere the Army wants it to be,' as far as they were concerned) took only seven days.

Seven days too long for me to wait, but that was still ... fast. Much quicker than two to three months. The lady at the post office was right. It was wiki-wiki!

I smiled to myself. And I bet none of those haoles who used wikipedia even know where the word came from, or what it meant.

After finding that out, I checked my phone so much less frequently for new emails.

Like, I managed to wait even a whole hour one time between scans for new emails.

By the end of that week I was furious and despairing! Why hadn't she responded? Yes, she hadn't gotten the package yet, so she didn't know my email.

But still. This was all her fault! WHY WASN'T SHE EMAILING ME YET!

Haha, funny, right?

But then, it hit me. What if she got the package, and she ... didn't email me back?

After then, I simultaneously check my phone like every second, and, at the same time, I never, ever looked at my phone again.

I wanted to kill her and I wanted to kill myself, I was so angry and depressed at the same time.

And I thought: how in the world do military spouses live through this? How do children ... exist every day knowing that Daddy, or ... Mommy was over there and could get hurt or killed at any time and why weren't they emailing back, did that mean they died?

How in the world could anybody live like that?

I knew I couldn't, and I had nothing to do with this Lauren Mallory.

Nothing at all.

And then, tending bar, I got it.

It was from her. It had a 'dot-mil' address and it was ...

It was from her.

I squealed.

Maybe I peed, a little bit.

Ted looked from the TV. "Everything okay?" He asked surprised, then smiling as he saw my face just glowing.

"Yeah, yeah," I said quickly. "Hey, I have to excuse myself a second, 'kay?"

And I ran from the bar to the bathroom upstairs, not even waiting for his answer.

See, I had to use the bathroom upstairs, because somebody had to change her panties that may or may not have become a little, tiny bit soiled.

I relieved myself as I opened the email on my phone with trembling hands.

"Hey, dumbass," Lauren's email started out.

Great. Lauren is Lauren. My eyes scanned through the email rapidly, looking to see if she were angry with me, or if she were like some rapper who called his hoes 'yo bitches!' in an affectionate kind of way.

Not misogynistic at all, right?

Sure.

My eyes took in everything at once, so I had to read her email again, slowly, so I could understand the words she wrote.

Her tone wasn't angry, it was ... teasing? maybe?

"So I guess the cookies mean you don't want to press charges. Your loss, I guess."

Then a small: "(thanks)"

She continued. "So, you have to give me your skype id for me to call you, no duh. Tell me when to call you, too, but we're 14:30 time difference Kabul to Hawaii, so it's like night and day, so maybe after you close up, which is when? But I can't skype on duty or during the work day, so we'll have to figure something out. idk. Anyway, email me back your 411."

Then she signed off: "Hooah! Lauren."

Okay, seriously? 'Hooah'? What the hell was that supposed to mean?

She also post-scripted. "p.s. The guys snarfed the cookies and were like: 'send MOAR!' So, yeah. That."

I hoped to God she opened the box and took out ... certain pictures before the 'guys' 'snarfed' my cookies.

I went back downstairs. I don't remember walking down the steps, but I got back to the bar somehow. I think I had the stupidest grin on my face.

No, I didn't send my skype id to Lauren. I didn't reply at all.

To send her my skype id, I'd have to download skype onto my computer first, and if I opened up my laptop, I didn't know when I'd get back to the bar.

Computers are just the biggest timesinks in the world!

And, free spirit that I am (or that I like to think that I am), I do have responsibilities.

So, I was back at the bar. And I waited for the comments from somebody for me to turn down the wattage, but nobody said anything.

Huh. Disappointing.

So I just went back to tending bar and let the time pass, easily.

...

As I closed up, and shooed Ted out the door, he gave me a look, and then he grinned just so slightly.

I waited for him to say something.

"Well, 'nite," he said, smirking, and ambled off down the road.

Hmmphf!

But I didn't have time to reproach him for his superior 'nite, like he was all in-the-know about anything, as if anything were up anyway!

How do parents know that? Know when something's up with you, when it so isn't!

I ran up to my bedroom after hastily cleaning up downstairs, and started downloading skype.

The progress bar ... aargh! I wanted to reach into my computer and yank the damn thing forward! Why do they call it a progress bar when it doesn't make any progress?

I think that's when I fell asleep with my laptop on my bed, watching skype downloading, in my bra and panties.

There may or may not have been drool on my pillow the next morning when I woke up, looking sleepy-stupid at my open laptop.

I'd rather not comment on the drool-on-the-pillow that was so not there, by the way!

I set up my skype account and fretted over a user name, finally settling on 'alohasoph' and wondering if that was okay, and wondering if Lauren would start calling me 'Soph' not 'Sophie,' and wondering if she did, would I like it or not like it, and wondering what that meant, either way.

I sent Lauren an email, and waited with baited breath for her to respond.

Which kept not coming.

I checked Kabul-time online, it was after midnight. I thought we were twelve hours off. No, Lauren said it was ... what? more than fourteen hours off? Did she stay up past midnight? Or did they have to go to bed at nine pm in the military?

Or did she not keep rechecking her email? like I kept rechecking mine?

Like, not everybody is obsessive, Sophie, I scolded myself. And isn't from backwater Mililani and have other things to do than check their email like every three seconds!

Shoot! I thought.

Now what to do with myself before the bar opened this evening?

Well, Lauren said, 'Send more cookies,' so I could do that, I guess.

I slumped over to the kitchenette and got out the mixing bowl, but then I just lost heart.

I didn't want to make cookies. I wanted to talk with Lauren! Now!

To tell her off! Yeah. To tell her off! That's it.

I put the bowl away, just so in a deep blue funk that it was almost a bitter black funk.

And you can't make cookies in a bitter black funk, because then the cookies become bitter, too. I saw that in the movie Like Water for Chocolate.

I saw that, and then there was the scene with the bathtub and candles ... lots of candles.

Not that that has anything to do with anything.

I left. I had to get out. Maybe I'd go to Waikiki at watch the tourists turn themselves into broiled lobsters on the beach. That'd be fun, right?

I got into my beater, a rust-red Toyota Celica that was most definitely not Lauren's sex-on-wheels mustang, and headed toward H2 so I could drive into Honolulu.

And ... as I was driving ...

Okay, what's this? How come I can't see?

I had to pull over.

I had something in my eyes, and my vision was all blurry, and I had to keep wiping them for some reason.

Somebody sobbed loudly, and I heard crying.

I sat in my car for a half-hour so I could pull myself together and drive again, but not to the beach.

Now I just wanted to go home.

I watched the cars pass by and I felt connected to the town and the community. I mean, nobody came up to me, but Mililani was my home town, and I knew the feel of it, in my bones. I breathed Hawaiian air and exactly at three pm every day, I felt the Hawaiian rain, and the sun was my friend and brother, and I was a part of my town, and my town was a part of me.

And I liked that, being Hawaiian, being a part of things-as-they-are, and it was okay, no matter what was happening, and no matter when it happened. We were Hawaii, and we were on Aloha-time, and things came when they did, not before, and not in a rush, but in its own time.

And I felt ... better, feeling that. This wasn't happening now, what I wanted, but it would happen later, and that was okay.

I smiled my Aloha-smile to myself, and drove past home, to Wahiawa.

Not to the hospital, again.

But to Schofield Barracks.

I couldn't drive on in. Why would I? How could I? Didn't you have to show a military id or something?

But there was a park, right across from the barracks called 'Woodwinds.' I parked my car and discovered this huge lake, right in Wahiawa, right in the middle of Oahu, with these tall, towering willow trees. They couldn't be willow trees, because they were way too tall, they were more like oak trees, but whatever they were, they were beautiful, peaceful, ancient.

'I was here yesterday. I am here today. I will be here tomorrow,' the trees told me, and I smiled at them in gratitude as I walked along a paved foot path by the lake. It was like a tourist spot, but not for Mainlanders, but a private park, just for Hawaiian natives, and I wondered if it were okay for me, a second generationer, to be here.

But it was okay. It was Hawaii. It was Aloha, and I felt welcomed and loved here.

I smiled, and I walked for awhile and I let the cool air from the lake be a balm to my troubled spirit, now troubled no more, but calm and serene.

And Mainlanders come to Hawaii on a one-or-two week vacation and rush to get everything in, and they get none of it. They come to Hawaii, but they get nothing of what Hawaii is, because Hawaii isn't in the rushing about, it's in the here, in the now, in the stillness of this cool breeze off the water as the Sun looked down on me peeking through shade provided by these kind, ancient willow trees.

I walked for a while in this park that went on forever, it seemed, all by myself. Everybody else was at work, I guessed, so I had the whole park to myself. I had the whole world to myself, and it was good to be alone for now, to be at peace.

I walked back to my beater-car, still smiling, and drove home.

It had been a full week, filling me up with ... stuff: the hospital, the post office, mailing packages, making cookies, getting an email, being called 'dumbass,' and not minding, too much.

I was full of things I've never really done, and on my own, and I could be proud of daring and accomplishing all these things. But I didn't have to let them weigh me down or consume me.

I could do all those things and anticipate ... something ... from the other side of the world.

But in the doing and anticipating, I could ... still be me, and be happy with me.

I got the bar ready for opening time. As everybody else was finishing their work-day, my would be starting. They had their jobs, and I had my bar, and somehow it all worked so that we had each other, in a way.

This was Hawaii, and it all just worked.

Even the haoles, always rushing about, always so out of breath ('haole'), even they, now, were a part of Hawaii, as much as we natives tolerated them sometimes, or hated and despised them at other times, and what they've done to us, how they've changes us and our ways to theirs. Even they were a part of Hawaii.

Or they weren't, as was now the case with Lauren, and that was ... okay, too.

Wasn't it?

I smiled at my bar, dark and quiet before opening, just being in this moment, connected to my bar, looking after this place: it's care-taker, given to me for this brief moment on Earth.

... and I checked my email. Just one more time. Just to be sure.

Nothing from Lauren.

That was okay, though. In it's own time. It would happen or it wouldn't, and that was okay.

I looked at me smiling in the mirror behind all the liquor on display.

"Aloha," I whispered as I smiled my aloha-smile, knowing it was okay.

So why was there sadness in my eyes?

A/N: So, unlike Sophie I have never, ever fell asleep in my undie-thingies, with my face pressed against the keyboard with eight thousand 'L's on a PM I was writing. Never. Nope, didn't happen. Ever.

And there was no pillow all soggy with drool, either. Just so you know. Just in case you were wondering.

... so, Sophie. Yeah. Lauren is 'sex on legs,' and her 'stang is 'sex on wheels.' But Sophie is this sweet, innocent girl who thinks proper thoughts, and wants Lauren to call her so she can tell her off.

Yeah. Okay, Soph, whatever you say, sweets. Aloha to you, too.

Now Sophie's gonna kill me, too. *sigh* The travails of being the authoress of sweet, smart girls who are so totally not in denial. I tell you what.

OOH! HOW COULD I FORGET? SweetestThing, authoress of the story "A Proper Send Off" on literotica, wrote back. She gave me her blessing for me to keep writing my story, she just asked that my character 'Jim' be renamed as it was too close to hers, so I did. 'Ted' was a WWII veteran who sang in our choir. He was a sweet, old man who was always getting us 'kids' names wrong. He died right before the New Year. He wasn't a drinker, but I see him looking after Soph here in this story. Thank you, Ted, and thank you, dear SweetestThing, for your kind words about my story and letting me continue it.