Everyone scooped up their drink when Neptune slapped his penis down the length of the bar. We gaped as he licked tourists’ nipples wet enough for temporary tattoos to stick. We—consenting adults in that public place—wondered who might be given private audience with the sea monster.
That was last night. This morning, in the shock-white emergency room with my overripe blueberry ankle, I caught eyes with Neptune again. No sunburned breast in his hands, but a fevered toddler and worry-eyed wife still in her house dress. No nod; no wink. Our sacred pact with deity: reverence here, silence now.