No Rum, Please

The Stewardess, still patient, leans over her semi-sleeping passenger. Asleep enough not to notice the low cut of her uniform, certainly.
"Did you want something to drink, sir?"
She's noticed the drink tickets stacked neatly on the fold-down tray. He mumbles himself awake, pulling the sleep from his eyes.
"Rum, straight." he says, on instinct. "No- fuck- sorry. Not rum."
"I do make a very good mojito." She says, attempting to be helpful. "The mint is still fresh."
"That's still a rum drink-- shit, yes please, rum." He ruffles his hair absently. "Sorry."
She doesn't even bother to wink. With an ass like hers, there's not at all a razor's edge to walk in keeping the customers satisfied-- nobody's complained yet, nobody. And since nobody's working for tippable service...

The mint is not fresh, and the lime juice tastes distinctly soda-like in its quality, and all he can taste is shitty thoughts that rum brings thoughts--

Always drinking, but never drunk, toes making grooves in powder-white sand made blue as curacao in the moonlight. Thoughts of her- always on his mind, and never off it. Peals of laughter that erupt as naked in their pleasure as those intwined bodies making them. Looking at her, seeing white crescents of teeth on black velvet, plump breasts coated in sand and sweat, legs that clench so easily around the small of his back. An embossed bottle- 'Republica De Cuba, Directo Desde el Barril', not wasted.
She crushes a sprig between bare lips, and trickles the spirit downwards. They embrace. They laugh. Fools with everything they need.

The wave of rum washes over it all, and he's thankful he can smile at the memories. Good memories, the best. He signals for another...