by Bernie Mojzes
"Ah, me love." Jack's whisper promised so much, fingers tracing smooth curves, the supple neck, the soft swell that filled his hand. "Where have you been all me life?" Bending low and closing his eyes, he breathed deeply of her scent, this new-found wonder, honey worth more than gold on this desolate isle, the sweetly flowing nectar of life, and slowly brought his lips tenderly to its source. The rum slid smooth as the finest molasses down his throat. Stuffing the sealed bottle into one of his coat's many pockets, he made his way back to the bonfire, where the sweet lass waited, eager and innocent.
"Elizabeth, love," he slurred, "have I got a treat for you."
The slight figure outlined against the fire didn't turn, just sat looking deep into the heart of the flame.
"I found us another bottle," he said, "the finest aged rum on the island. Just for you." Sparrow thought briefly of his friend, of the man he intended to betray, then looked at the silhouetted figure and grinned wickedly. A bottle of rum and a saucy wench on a deserted isle? Was there a better way to go out? "You know I've always thought very highly of you, Elizabeth. Your grace, your manner, your lips. The way you slap me when you're angry." He stood behind the figure. "I'll trade you. A bit of rum for a kiss."
He reached down, fingers gripping hair to tilt back the head, lips meeting, tongues entwined.
It wasn't as he'd imagined it. But it wasn't bad.
The winds shifted, blowing smoke toward the couple, and Jack pulled away, eyes tearing. All he could taste was ash.
His companion reached out and touched his face tenderly. "Boromir?"
Jack blinked. "Frodo?"
This clearly required more rum.