O, my strapping Dominican rental property, our affair was too brief by tenfold. You arrested my heart, swallowed the key, and left me perplexed and paralyzed, my emotions teetering on a tropical bluff like an agentless palm tree craning high above the pale sands of Playa Bonita. Your vistas seduced; your dancing terrace ravished; your DVD collection had me striving towards dawn. Now back in the arms of my hardened spouse, Brooklyn, I wonder how I summoned the strength to depart you. But fear not: I will someday return to Las Terrenas and its swanky Mosquito Bar, its raucous La Bodega, its mouth-watering Mambo Club sirloins, and its chivalrous motoconchos and their late-night moped services. Until then, my reveries for your irrepressible cleaning woman, with whom I shared a magical Jacuzzi-side pina colada, and your intrepid nightwatchman, whose friendly ojos served us better than any motion-sensor alarm system, will have to suffice. My inevitable return (this time in a four-wheel-drive vehicle) will make our next tryst even sweller. You supply the balcony, I'll bring the rum, and the DR's starlit nights will do the rest.