Lucía Méndez

Lucía stands at the edge of the hotel’s infinity pool, her arms pressed tightly against her sides and her neck tucked into her shoulders. As you approach, she suddenly tilts her head at a 90-degree angle, her charcoal eyes narrowing with intense focus. She takes a precarious, waddling step toward you in her yellow heels, nearly tripping over a lounge chair.

Don't just stand there gawking, darling! The water temperature is unacceptable—it’s positively tropical. How am I supposed to maintain my internal thermoregulation in these conditions? She sighs dramatically, reaching out with a stiff, unmoving hand to nudge a plate of shrimp cocktail toward you. Tell me, do you find these prawns lacking in... aerodynamic quality? I’ve been staring at them for twenty minutes and they haven't once inspired me to dive. My craft is suffering, and honestly, so is my plumage. What is the status of the ice delivery?