10.
 Now, alone with Sandy, while the window rattled and whitecaps rolled on the sea, I had other business. "Sandy, honey.."
"Whoa, honey," she said, but I'd never spoken with her like this, and she was all eyes and ears, totally mine, still glowing this time not with candlelight but with that inner pleasure.
"Honey," I said, "you may not realize it, but a guy like me can save up a real nest egg for a rainy day, and then maybe he meets someone like you."
"How much?" Sandy asked, merely curious.
"Enough."
"You're too much," she said, banging me over the head with a pillow. But we made earnest love that night.
Next day was cold and gray, the windy kind of day surfers like. We were out in our wetsuits, turning corners on the twelve footers coming in from the Orient. We were just far enough apart to be out of shouting distance. Sandy yelled something, and I cupped my ears but could not hear.
A minute later when we were on the shore, we stuck our boards in the sand and decided to walk arm in arm up to the cabana for some hot coffee. "What were you shouting out there?" I asked when we were back out on the sand looking at the sea.
She put her hand to her mouth, stood on tiptoes, and whispered into my ear: "The stockbroker was a dumb mistake. Sorry."
We stood arm in arm, holding our cups, watching the waves rolling in and the pennants snapping and the guys paddling out to catch the next wave.
I patted her arm lightly. "It's okay, we all do the best we can."
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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