Second Best Hotel in South Beach. We check in and find our room decorated in white; very sleek and very modern. I stare at the bed. THE bed. Just one. There's also a couch…could I ask him to? Ah, forget it. I'll get drunk and pass out and then I won't have to deal.

Tantra. Very cool place. Diva recommended it specifically for the aphrodisiac menu. I tear into my entrée and wait for the aphrodisiac effect. Nothing. I gulp some more alcohol and look at tiny hands. Nope, still nothing. What is he babbling about? Oh yeah, something about the millions of trips he's taken this year. And how he's a really bad dancer. Thanks for the warning. What the hell? Now he's text messaging his friend. Isn't that something that kids in high school do?

"This guy, who I'm talking to; he's the one who recommended the hotel-second best in South Beach."

I think about faking a heart attack so I can spend the weekend in the hospital.

Second Best Hotel in South Beach. We return from Tantra slightly buzzed. Well, I am. I'm also exhausted—it's been a long day. I'm brushing my teeth when tiny hands says, "There's someone on our porch!" Indeed, a couple has wandered from the dance floor of the club. I creep to the curtain and listen:

Girl: My boyfriend is right there.
NotBoyfriend: Your boyfriend? (Obviously he missed that one.)
Girl: He's right over there in the Prada hat. (I snicker. Is your boyfriend straight, honey?)
NotBoyfriend: The Prada hat? (He's thinking the same thing.)
Girl: I know who my boyfriend is! Come on, I wanna go dance with you!

Unfortunately, they dance off into the night. I wonder if NotBoyfriend will get killed. I finish brushing my teeth, change for bed and dive under the sheets.

"Good night! So very tired!" I say, and turn over.

Lunch. Somehow, we've gotten turned around on the directions from the girl at the concierge desk. We're walking; well, I am—and tiny hands is sort of shuffling and whining about his Adidas soccer slippers. They're hurting his tender feet. Maybe that's because (1) they're brand new (2) you're supposed to wear them with socks and (3) you don't play soccer.

Yet he's insistent on finding this stupid restaurant. We pass roughly 6,000 sidewalk cafes and I'm about to gnaw my arm off when we finally choose one at random. We choose badly, as the waiter is so stoned he forgets about us. Which means I get hungrier and tiny hands gets chattier. This time I get to hear about his Saab and how it really punches on the highway. I watch some hot guys play volleyball and wonder if I could join them.

We're walking back from lunch when tiny hands takes my hand. It's all I can do not to snatch my palm out of his. Oh jeez. It's so SMALL. And sweaty. Dude, is this guy really 13? What's going ON here?

Beach. I'm lying in the sun, hoping that tiny hands will STOP talking. For just a minute. And if he does talk, please God, make it something interesting. But no. I have my nose in a novel and he asks, "What are you reading?" I answer without removing my eyes from the page.

"So, do you need me to help put lotion on your back?" he asks.

"No, I'm fine." Reading.

Sweet silence for a few moments. Then, "Are you sure you don't want to take your top off?"

Would it be more painful to kill him by dumping him in the ocean with raw meat tied to him, or perhaps by burying him in the sand and depositing birdseed on his head?

"So, have your boobs ever been in the sun?"

Raw meat. Sharks. Yesssss.

Finally he says he's going swimming. As soon as he's out of earshot I grab my phone.

"GIGI! Help! This guy is so not cool! I can't stand him! I want to come home! Help!" She giggles and tries to reassure me. After all, I only have another 24 hours to go. "Thanks," I reply sarcastically, and hang up. Tiny hands returns and lies down in his lounge chair. Finally, he's quiet and I sneak a peek to see if he's fallen asleep. If so, maybe I can grab my stuff and run…fast. I can't tell what he's doing behind the mirrored sunglasses. Yeah, mirrored. Don't ask. So I decide to flip over. "Good idea," he comments. Oh GOD. He's still awake. And WHERE is the damn waiter? We've been out here for two hours and not a drop of alcohol. And tiny hands has a strict rule about not drinking until 5 p.m. Whatever.

The sun is setting as we decide to pack it up and head to the pool. Good. Pool = drinks and food. Tiny hands gets in the water and I grab another deck chair and a new magazine. Sweet Jesus—there's a waitress, heading my way with a tray. It's slow-motion, you know, like a beer commercial with the Swedish bikini team—here she is, handing me a deliciously cool vodka tonic, and I'm saying, "Yeah, just charge that to the room." Tiny hands gets out of the pool to join me, drains his Heineken and says he'll have a vodka tonic also.

"I usually have gin and tonic," he tells me, while I wonder how long it would take me to drown myself.

I mutter, "Oh?" while reading a People magazine.

"But I decided to try vodka tonic."

"Why?" Do I look like I care, buddy?

"Because you're drinking it; and well, because it sounded so light and refreshing that I wanted to try it."

I grab my own cocktail and down it. He did not just say "light and refreshing," did he? There should be a list of words straight men should not say—and "light and refreshing" should be on it. And why the hell does it matter what I'm drinking?

Three vodka tonics later, we're on the porch hanging out and waiting for dinner. Well, that's what I'm doing. If I can just keep him out of the room, maybe he won't try and make out with me. I keep running to the bar to get more vodka tonics, while tiny hands babbles about everything from his cable modem to his mom's boyfriends when he was growing up to condo fees for the new place he wants to buy in Georgetown. Oh—and don't forget—this is the SECOND best hotel in Miami beach. THE SECOND BEST. I resist the urge to scream "SHUT UP!" and smile and sip my cocktail instead.

I'm getting out of the shower—door locked—when I hear my cell phone ringing. It's Diva. "What are you doing?" she asks.

"Hiding in the bathroom," I hiss.

"Oh no," she replies, laughing. "That can't be good."

"I can't wait to get the hell out of here," I tell her, looking at my reflection in the mirror. "Oh the good side, however, I look friggin' fabulous in a bikini and I'm finally drunk. It makes it a bit easier."

I hang up with Diva and make up songs about how much I hate tiny hands. Yup, the alcohol is helping.

Dinner. Tiny hands and I can't agree on wine so we order by the glass. I've lost track of how much I've had. I just know that as soon as he gets up to go to the bathroom, there's a guy facing me from across the room who shakes his head sadly at me. I start laughing and mouth, "He's that bad, huh?" He shrugs and makes a motion to slit his throat. I'm convulsing with giggles when tiny hands returns to the table.

"What, are you flirting with someone?" he says.

I giggle some more, take a gulp of wine and nod. "Yup! He's cracking me up!" Tiny hands looks wildly around the restaurant but Heckler has fallen smoothly into conversing with his table. I try and catch his eye but he's a master—until tiny hands stumbles to the bathroom again. Then Heckler starts up again. He's clearly indicating that he thinks tiny hands is a loser and he can't understand what I'm doing with him. I shrug. Dude, I don't have any answers either. More wine.

It's when we've finished dinner and are standing outside that I realize tiny hands also has a Tiny Alcohol Tolerance. And boy are those tiny hands moving fast over my ass. From there, my night stumbles into The Dark Side of Drunk.

-Shakira 02.27.03