We aren’t speaking. Our “big romantic getaway” is not. He leaves to kite-board; I sleep late, read the paper and drink coffee alone. I want to talk. He says he’s grateful for the silence, no kids. We wander into Tucker’s Provisions like strangers. I’m lonely, and we’re in Key West for three more days. I fiddle with a shaving brush and sniff the soap it comes with. The scent reminds me of when we fell in love, his clean face. Despair seizes me, but then his chin nuzzles my neck. “I’ll shave if you put this on and let me take it off?” He holds a dress, pink as a blush. I kiss him, agreeing. Saying yes.
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