For the purposes of this trip to St. Lucia, let's just say I'm twenty-four.
Caribbean rain showers down on us without warning, breaking apart our slow grinding and scattering dancers and musicians alike. Vitor and I duck under a wooden overhang, grasping hands and giggling at each other, our cheeks flushed red. He runs the palm of his hand along my waist to the small of my back, gently but firmly pulling me into him until I can smell the sweet rum on his tongue. "I wasn't done dancing," he smiles down at me as he slowly sways his hips in a languorous figure-eight. He's in luck: the rain quickly passes, leaving the night air damp but no cooler. The guitars and steel drums resume their insistent flow as Vitor leads me back into the street along with dozens of locals. I turn my back to him, pressing against his chest as he wraps his arm around my belly and guides me in an intimate rhythm.