Marry Yourself

The rain in Lanyu is sticky, coating your face like a thin film of oil.

She drank three cups of tea gone cold in the teahouse across from the funeral home. At the next table, someone was calculating his worth down to the last penny.

There was no heroic rescue, no love at first sight. Just a wet umbrella, a clumsy remark, and a ship's log bearing the words "Marry Yourself."

When the tide comes in, some set sail, while others return to port.