We left our clothes on the shore down the bank from where they slept and laughed like we did when we were kids wading into the frigid fantastic. So cold I couldn’t speak but I could see her eyes in the reflections of the porch light and the houses on the far shore. Palms to palms, fingers clenched, nipple to nipple, truth or dare, lovers and games, a kiss and a promise.
Weeks later…at her home a ferry ride and an island behind and a thousand miles in front of me, we fell asleep with her baby between us, between the sheets, with her head on my shoulder, between
Pacific north island dreams…west of never, motorcycles and highways, words and hearts and letters in a book carried by postmen.
“I can’t find it”, she whispered pulling me aside in the laundry room at the bottom of the stairs. “I don’t know, maybe it was packed, maybe he…”
“Shhh, it’s OK.”
I knew, he knew, it didn’t matter that we never…said, he knew the way I looked at her and how I paused to catch my breath…and they drove away.