Pearl Divers

She wore an avocado sarong over an apricot tan.
Maître d' in a Polynesian tiki bar, she seated the rugged man, liked his unruly brown hair. “Here is a menu to browse. Decide when I return with your drink.” Hips swiveled away.
Hips swiveled back. Sarongs are slow-motion. She approached the man, his head down, perusing the menu. He glanced up, startled her. A monocle over one eye, flames reflected on the glass from burning torches. The pyrotechnics affixed her.
He raised his right eyebrow. The quintessential Victorian affectation dropped to his shirt. It hung on a brass chain, tarnished from salt water. The spell broken, said “Bad eye, this comes in handy reading menus and numbers on my camera.” The monocle often had other powers, in the world of Polynesian sharks and tattoos.