Following the island’s strict dress code of a t-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, I walk the mile from my place to my favorite bar. I bury my feet in the cold fine sand underneath the table even before the bartender has the chance to take my order.

It’s Wednesday evening, but days of the week don’t have much meaning here. Each seat is filled with visitors from all over the English-speaking world. Some are only here for a week while others are here indefinitely. They are all here for different reasons except that they’re not. They have put their old lives on hold to try something new.

I order a Belekin, a local light beer that only tastes good out in the salty air, and nod to Sammy and Greta out on the other side of the room. They are Swedish tourists in their late twenties who speak English without a hint of an accent.

I first spent the night with Sammy after we met dancing at the Lazy Lizard late one night. The following day, she introduced me to Greta and took up with a local. We spent the day sunbathing and swimming and then ended up back in my bed before sunrise.

I’ve been here long enough to know what the locals already know. One of the reasons single women come to this island is that it’s a safe place to hook up with guys.

The men are friendly and with a population of around two thousand people, the place is about the size of a high school back home. Everyone knows everyone or at least almost everyone.

Perhaps I should’ve gone somewhere bigger, somewhere I could disappear a little easier but I’m not too worried.

I have a new name and a new identity. I’d been here once for a few days a long time ago and soon after Olive and I broke up this was the first place that came to mind.

Olive.

No matter how many drinks I have or how many women I sleep with, my mind keeps coming back to her.

The way Greta twists her hair around her finger is the exact same way that Olive used to do it.

The way that Sammy’s eyes twinkle in the moonlight.

The way that Greta laughs.

The way that Sammy shuffles her feet.

The way that the girl down the street whose name I don’t know shrugs her shoulders.

I see her everywhere I go.

She is like a ghost who haunts me.

“I’ll take another, please,” I say to Imogen, the bartender.

Imogen came here for a week from Vancouver, Canada, and never left.

She just cancelled the rest of her ticket, got a longer stay rental, and has been here for over six months.

To pay the rent, she tends bar at night and works as a dive instructor during the day.