Postal  By Adrian Hunter  

Pink sunsets. Pristine beaches. Captain Cook. Julie spun the postcard rack again, but nothing really worked for the message she had to write.

What kind of airport name was Faa’a anyway? “A long, long way to run,” the Trapp Family echoed from the back of her brain.

Well, Tahiti was his idea. They were all his ideas. That. Was. The. Point.

She glanced through the exit at Michael talking to the driver of something called “Le Truck,” who was gesturing angrily at their pile of luggage, especially the matching steamer trunks sealed tight with chains.

Not that they were consciously trying to be obvious.

Had it really been a year already? Julie could still remember every word of her sarcastic reply to one of his alt.sex posts. It didn’t take long for their online relationship to blossom into daily emails, instant messages and chat scenes involving one-handed typing, self-applied clothespins and nuclear orgasms.

Jordan, Jackson, J. Fox ... Julie had to steady herself against the nearest wall whenever someone inadvertently mentioned “Michael,” much to the growing consternation of her real (hah!) boyfriend.

Eleven months of virtual enslavement finally led to a thousand-mile trip for a cup of coffee. Before the sugar dissolved, they had booked a room for the night. Then three.

This time, she told Barry she was visiting her grandparents for two weeks. He didn’t know they died in 1988.

According to the owners, their villa was accessible exclusively by catamaran. The perfect hideout for pirate swag. Pleasure chest. XXX marked the spot.

Julie grabbed a postcard showing a Gauguin painting, took it to the counter and started scribbling.

Not much room for a message. Good. In brevity, bravery.

“Dearest Barry, it’s knot your fault, but ... ”

Fuck!

Outside, Michael helped the driver hoist a bamboo cage onto the roof.