Morning Mist

It's the day before Christmas, and we walk the dog in the park as we so often do, the clock reading 7:22 a.m.

You always did love the morning mist upon the dewy grass — it looks mysterious like me, you used to say. It's been a long time since you've said that.

I wonder when, in our forty years of marriage, the passion between us began to wane — when did the fire lose its glow? Neither of us talk about it, but we know the unsaid question lies in both our hearts.

Walking through the mist, you peer at me and see me gazing back. Your eyes crinkle in a slight smile, and surprisingly, I blush. That was a look I've not seen in a while, and tears well in my eyes. Were you thinking the same as I just now?

We look away, but you let your hand graze mine, and maybe it's the mist, but I feel a jolt of something close to electricity shoot through my fingers, and I sigh — not too loud — but you hear it and you stop.

I stop too.

The dog is running and my heart is, too, as you step closer to me. You, my husband and long time lover; my friend and confidant.

Your smile is now a beam through the low haze and you are twenty-one again — young, carefree, and about to sweep me off my feet.

“Barbara.” Your voice is full of love. “Fancy a fuck?”

I fall about laughing — you can always make me laugh. “Only if you take me from behind against that tree over there.”

You chuckle and I'm surprised to hear that it carries a depth to it, signalling the promise of something our grandchildren should never know about.

Later, after dinner, we sit by a roaring fire, wrapped around each other's familiar arms — each other's Christmas present. I let out a giggle.

You raise your eyebrows. “Care to share?”

“The tree never saw it coming.”