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I found him sitting on the gravel path outside the lighthouse keeper’s cottage. He looked sad and scared, and when I eyed him suspiciously, he gulped and shook his head. I heaved a sigh and chalked him down as another drunken gringo. Lost. Totally lost, given that there wasn’t a single neighbour within two miles. He didn’t seem the kind that would be interested in visiting the lighthouse. He wasn’t even wearing walking boots. How he had ended up on my doorstep eluded me. One look at him told me he was out of his depth. Or high (I had seen my fair share of that, I can tell you). Messy split-up most likely, so I just ignored him, but the moment I turned away to unlock my door, he spoke, and something about this low and soft rumble held me back. “Disculpe, por favor,” his voice was close to a whisper, and it held all the fear and uncertainty I had seen in his eyes. At least he had manners, I thought. “¿Dónde estoy?” Where am I? What kind of question was that? I raised my eyebrows and turned back. The man had got off the ground and was dusting off his impossibly tight denims. I smirked at the fact that they didn’t leave much to the imagination. His shirt was pink and half-unbuttoned. The look was screaming gigolo. Rent-man possibly, although he seemed a little too old for that line of work. Besides, he wasn’t wearing any jewellery. No necklace, I noted. No watch either. “Punta Tuna,” I offered and added that he was welcome to speak English. “Fuck,” he exhaled and looked around himself, “That’s a … lighthouse,” he stated, and I laughed at the ridiculously redundant comment, “Yeah.” He frowned, trying to figure out his whereabouts. “Punta Tuna? Maunabo? Puerto Rico,” I said, and his frown deepened as he failed to remember what he was doing here. His hands went to his back pockets, and he retrieved a pack of smokes. With an unnerved sigh, he picked one, lit it, and took a long drag. “I don’t remember coming here,” he offered, and I smiled. He seemed genuinely puzzled. “I’m Claire,” I said and held out my hand. The man stared at me from eyes wide with shock and eventually shook it. I tilted my head and nudged him to give me his name, and he stared some more, then he swallowed hard and shook his head, “I – I don’t remember,” he scratched his head and flinched. “Are you from around here?” I asked, and he shook his head again, “I – I don’t know … I don’t think so.” – “American?” – “I guess.” – “But there is something else in you.” He laughed, but soon enough his face fell again, “Yeah, I think … I might be … Texan.” I nodded and offered to call him a taxi. “I can’t pay for it, and I can’t expect you to-,“ he broke off, “I wouldn’t know where to go.” I said that he was welcome to use my phone. “You shouldn’t invite a stranger into your home,” he declined and sat on the low wall next to the front door. I told him that I could pass him the phone through the window. It had a ridiculously long cord. “Who should I call?” he asked and gave me the sad puppy look again. “Sorry to ask,” I bit my bottom lip, “Are you drunk?” He shook his head. “Using-?” He laughed at the omission and shook his head again, “I think … I … fell. Must’ve hit my head.” His gaze fell onto the gravel. “I … don’t remember,” he confessed, “but I woke up lying there.” He nodded at the spot he had sat in earlier. I decided to end this bizarre conversation and unlocked my door. Stepping through I threw a good luck and stay safe over my shoulder at which he hummed.
I changed into a soft tracksuit and put some bread into the oven. Then I unloaded my groceries, cut an avocado and poured myself some pear juice. I cleaned the surfaces and put away the paper bags. Then I opened the blinds to find him still sitting on the wall. It was getting dark, and he didn’t seem like he was about to move, so I opened the window a fraction and called out to him. He turned and gave me a look full of hope when I handed him a small bowl with guacamole and three slices of bread through the grille. His eyes lit up with delight, and he grabbed the gifts and started eating. In no time he devoured the bread and was licking his fingertips. “Gracias, Hermosa,” he said and handed the bowl back, and I giggled and took it, wondering what he was going to do. “Uhm … I think I’ll just sit it out.” I frowned. He couldn’t be serious. “You can’t spend the night outside! In nothing but that shirt! You’ll catch your own death!” He grinned cheekily and shrugged. “I’ve got a gun,” I said warily, and his eyes widened (he had very expressive eyes!), “I’m warning you, I’ll use it, if you try anything on,” I spoke with authority, and the man seemed impressed enough. “You can have the couch,” I offered, and the man’s breath hitched, “You don’t even know my name.” – “So? You don’t know it yourself!” The corners of his mouth lifted in a shy little smile, and he nodded and stepped aside and waited for me to open the door. He walked through, then stayed close to it and looked around defensively. “I’ll call you Beau,” I decided. As in The Bandit. He did have Burt Reynolds’s eyes after all. The man furrowed his brow and didn’t seem to connect. Beau, I realised just then. Handsome. “Sit down,” I sighed and went to fetch him a rug and a pillow. On second thoughts, I also grabbed an old set of pyjamas my ex had left. The stranger stared at it, then at me, and croaked a hoarse thank you. I left him to change and busied myself in the kitchen. He joined me a short while later, shirt buttons only half-done, pyjama pants riding low on his narrow hips. His bare feet were long and narrow, and I smiled at this strange man. He tried to mirror my expression, gave up, and took in the dishes I had just washed. His hand reached for the towel, and he grabbed a bowl and started drying it. I watched in surprise and asked him if he remembered anything at all about himself. “Not really,” he shrugged, “I … I don’t think I’m on some kind of vacation. I … think I came here for work.” – “Any idea what it is you do?” Another shrug, “Not the faintest.” I examined his posture, hunched, confused, frightened, and wondered what might have brought him to the lighthouse. “I seem to remember … paperwork. I guess, I’m in administration … a desk clerk.” I pouted at that assessment. He had certainly appeared more colourful than he was making out to be. “What about real estate?” He snorted, “Unlikely.” He wasn’t sure why it was. “Married?” – “I don’t know.” I looked at him leaning against my counter, hip jutted out, hands on the worktop, “Odds are I might be divorced,” he stared at his ringless fingers. “Kids?” His head shot up, and he looked spooked, “I … I don’t think so … I … might have.” I somehow doubted that. He didn’t seem the fatherly type. “You … run the lighthouse?” he smirked, and I rolled my eyes, “The museum. I do have an eye on the lighthouse though.” – “There’s a museum!” I laughed. He had definitely not come as a tourist then. “I … didn’t know. I … I’d like to visit,” he made up for his ignorance, and I waved my arm, “Don’t feel pushed. I’ll gladly give you a tour, if that’s what you really want.” He nodded eagerly. “You said you took a fall,” I changed the subject, and his hand found the back of his head again, “May I have a look?” He glowered, but conceded and lowered his head for me. I gently touched his head to immediately feel a goose egg. I parted his locks (grinning at how cute his hair curled in his neck) and noticed the discoloration. He must have hit his head really badly. “Hey, look at me,” I said, and his head snapped up, “follow my index.” He grunted, but tried to follow my orders. I could tell that he was struggling, and when I drew a little circle in the air, he squeezed his eyes shut and swayed a little. “Please, stop,” he whispered and his grip on the worktop tightened. ”You’re concussed,” I stated, and he nodded. “You should stop bobbing your head,” I lectured, and he grumbled a yes, m’am. “Come on, I’ll tuck you in,” I took his arm and slowly pulled him with me, sat him down on the couch, and made him lie down. Once he was stretched out on my sofa, I threw the rug over him and wished him a good night. “¡Buenas noches, Hermosa! Sleep well,” he breathed. “And you, … Beau,” I smiled and locked myself in my bedroom.