The Afternoon Ferry

The ferry was almost empty.

We sat outside despite the wind because my wife liked watching the islands pass. Her hair blew across her face, and every few minutes she tucked it behind one ear only for the wind to pull it free again.

"You are staring," she said.

"I am on holiday."

"Is staring a holiday activity?"

"One of my favourites."

She placed her feet in my lap beneath the table. I rubbed them through her shoes.

The trip had not been planned perfectly. The hotel room was smaller than the photographs. One restaurant was closed. We had taken the wrong bus the day before and ended up walking five kilometres.

Still, she looked more relaxed than she had in months.

"What are you thinking?" I asked.

"That we should miss buses more often."

We talked about previous trips - the train we nearly missed on our honeymoon, the tent that leaked, the beach where we stayed until everyone else had gone home. The memories were not romantic because they had been flawless. They were romantic because they belonged to us.

The wind became colder. She moved to the seat beside me and tucked herself beneath my arm.

"Kiss me," she said.

I did.

There was no one near us. The ferry moved steadily through grey water while we kissed like people with nowhere urgent to arrive.

That evening, we returned to the hotel before dinner. Sunlight came through the thin curtains. My wife stood by the window and removed her earrings.

"We have a reservation in an hour," I reminded her.

"We can be late."

"You hate being late."

"I contain multitudes."

She came toward me and began unbuttoning my shirt. The afternoon had built a gentle closeness between us, and now it became desire without losing the tenderness.

We lay on the bed with the window slightly open. I kissed her slowly, paying attention to the places where she relaxed most fully: the side of her neck, her shoulders, the curve of her waist. She guided me when she wanted more.

"Stay there," she said once, closing her eyes.

I stayed.

Later, she chose to lie above me, moving at a pace that suited her. I loved that travel made her less hurried. She allowed herself time. I supported her hips and followed the rhythm she set, keeping one hand where she had asked for it.

The pleasure in her body grew gradually. I watched the change in her face as she stopped thinking and simply felt. When the moment finally reached her, she lowered herself against me and remained there, breathing in time with the curtain moving beside us.

We missed the reservation.

At nine, we ate sandwiches from a small shop near the harbour and drank wine from paper cups on a bench.

"Best dinner of the trip," she said.

"The restaurant had excellent reviews."

"It did not have this view."

The ferry we had taken earlier crossed the water in the distance, its lights reflected in a long broken line.

My wife leaned against me.

"We are good at imperfect holidays," she said.

I kissed the top of her head.

"We are good at finding the important part."

She looked up. "Staring?"

"Among other things."