His unmistakable tread in the street,
Worn brown moccasins,
The click of the latch on the gate
Behind him,
Paper bags of groceries under both arms,
He filled the doorway.

She unpacked the groceries,
Started the bouillabaisse.
They bickered back and forth,
Husband and wife.

They sat in the sun,
Walked on the deserted beach,
Ate oranges sticky sweet
And gritty from sand
That had washed up in the night,
Bantered like lovers,
Took turns stirring the pot.

By candlelight
They ate the bouillabaisse
With a bottle of red table wine,

Stumbled through the dark
To the dock,
Sat on the dilapidated bench.
Arm around her,
Her head upon his chest,
She pondered
The bewitching drumming
Of his mysterious heart.
The blanket of the heavens,
More stars than sky,
Covered them.
They fell in love all over again.

They walked
Arms entwined
Past the cholera cemetery,
On into the house,
So close, they no longer felt
The need to talk.

Sleepy,
She went to bed.
He read dog-eared copies
Of old National Geographics.

Soon, he whispered in her ear,
Why stay up half the night with magazines
When he could be in bed with her?
She smiled at his whispers in the dark,
Listened to the measured breaths
Of his immediate sleep.

Lightly,
She laid her hand upon his thigh,
Felt the solid bone
Beneath his silken skin,
Listened to the night sounds,
The distant waves, an ocean vast and restless,
The wind knocking the shutters
Against the clapboard,
Until unconsciousness took her
Drawing her down
Deeply
Into the black velvet envelope
Of sleep.