Gusty Evening Light

"Look at that sunset."

Just four words were all it took to make me put down my dish towel and walk onto the deck to join John, Jim and Carol as they admired the last orange glow in the western sky as the sun disappeared behind the trees. Mill Creek was smooth - almost glassy - undisturbed. We were undisturbed. Occasionally an anonymous fish poked a nose through the surface to dine on the evening hatch of invisible insects that only hungry fish can see. He disappeared - leaving only widening ripples. A family of swans headed home. The mother osprey watched from her roost -always alert - ready to chase away whatever threatened her young. Above our heads, the wind worried the tree tops. I lit the lantern and turned it low. Just enough light now to see the contented faces of my husband and friends. I bring out coffee and we sit in silence enjoying the gusty evening light.

Yesterday's Weather

One summer they drove through Texas forever.

A merciless rain pursued them.

Battering, beating, pounding
Cascading through the ragged roof of the TR3

Inside, they had already drowned in silence.

The passion they had mistaken for love extinguished by a long winter, a short spring and a steady diet of canned corn and river water.

(The Rio Grande is not for drinking.)

Weary wipers struggled in vain to whoosh the rain from the windshield.

They drove on blindly.

Anxious to be someplace else. Desperate to be someone else

A Truly Civilized Woman is Never in a Hurry

I read those words on a tea bag tag a few months ago and they have been steeped into my consciousness. It doesn’t matter if they are true. I believe them. I am sure I believe many things that are not true. I recall those words each morning as I leave the gym and I am tempted to hurry so I can make the light at the corner of 20th and L. “A truly civilized woman is never in a hurry” I remember and I slow down. I notice that it is sunnier on the north side of L Street. I notice the aroma coming from the coffee shop next to the gym and I look forward to the tea I will have when I eventually get to work. I will drink it from the cup that Catherine made. A truly civilized kayaker is never in a hurry. This weekend I paddled against the tide to the spot where the creek becomes a marsh. A quiet spot where only kayakers, swans, heron and red-winged blackbirds are welcome. I wedged the nose of the kayak against the rocks to anchor myself and sat there for a long time soaking in the sun and the silence. When I was ready, I pushed away from the rocks and pointed the nose toward home. I pulled in the paddles, tucked the buds of my iPod into my ears, selected the Loreena McKennit file and let the tide carry me home. I didn’t touch the paddles again. I just guided the kayak with the rudder pedals. “A truly civilized woman is never in a hurry” I remembered when the tide slackened and my forward progress slowed. With my tea bag wisdom in mind everything I do becomes a meditation. Is that what Natalie was trying to impart with the slow walking? Now if I can just get Darcy and Arlo to buy into my tea bag wisdom. “Repeat after me, a truly civilized dog is never in a hurry.”

Dawn Finally Arrived

Sleep extinguished.
Tear-soaked pillows.
The beginning of a headache.
The hands on the clock don’t move.
We wonder if we can live through the pain.
Nothing to numb it.
All anesthetics forbidden by a decision made years earlier when the weight of grief was not yet calculated.
Prayers deficient.
We cannot pray. We will not kneel.
Why should we stoop to lie to a God who leaves us so alone?
Sleep won’t come.
We try to read. The same sentence.
Again and again and again.

Time has stopped.
It will be 3:34 AM forever.
We’re hungry.
No, not hungry. But empty.
We yearn for rice pudding.
The closest we can find is a cup of peach yogurt.
We eat it. Ignoring the expiration date.
We remain unsatisfied but the hands of the clock have moved – just a little.
We empty the dishwasher.
A glass slips from our hand.
Shatters.
We pick up the shards.
One pierces our left thumb leaving a gash that will become a scar that will bear witness to that endless night.
We sit on the kitchen floor.
Tears mix with the blood that seeps from our thumb.
We draw circles on the linoleum with our blood.
We draw the sun to invoke the dawn.
We continue until there is no more blood – no more tears
and only then do we notice that the dawn has finally come.

Mauserl

Dainty feet with pansy tinges toes dangle inches above a straw colored carpet.
They weave and dart with a life of their own as the body remembers a long forgotten dance.

The body remembers the 49-11 eau de cologne she breathed in
as she sat upon the lap of her clean-shaven papa
and he crooned

“My Little Mauserl. What can I give you? Only the best for my Little Mauserl.”

The body remembers
the pain of a child not yet two years old,
crying to her less-loved mother for help.

“Get up. Come here. Then I will help you.”

A harsh first lesson for a little mouse, but she remembered
and passed it on to her own dark-haired daughter.

The body remembers
mouth and fingers on a golden saxophone she bought herself at sixteen
to catch the eye of the young conductor who would become her husband and share her bed for twenty years until they parted
agreeing at last
the sex was lousy.

The body remembers.

Balls, Dogs and Kindness

Every weekend morning at 8 am we all take our dogs to the park at the end of the block and allow our dogs to play together…in spite of the prominently displayed sign that reads “All Dogs Must be on Leash”. It is very illegal. This Saturday Arlo ran after one of Arledge’s balls…the kind you throw, not the other kind. Arledge is a standard poodle. His owner threw a second ball. Arlo went after that one too. Now Arlo was running around the park with TWO balls in his mouth and it cracked me up. My neighbor said nothing, but he leashed his poodle and marched out of the park, muttering under his breath. I thought it was a little strange, but I shrugged it off. I took Arlo and Darcy home and went to my yoga class. When I got back there was a two-page letter in my mailbox addressed to Arlo and me. An angry letter about balls and manners. My first reaction was to march over to my neighbor’s house and give him a piece of my mind. Thank goodness for restraint of pen and tongue…and the fact that during Lent, instead of “giving something up” I have decided to practice KINDNESS. So instead of making an ass out of myself, I drove to PetSmart and bought three bags of multi-colored tennis balls. Then I came back home and shot several digital photos of Arlo SURROUNDED by the balls. I kept snapping until I got one where Arlo had just the right expression. Then I printed that picture on a photo card with the message:

Dear Arledge:

Sorry I took your balls. I will try to be a better neighbor.

Your Friend, Arlo

I attached the card to the bag of balls and went over to my neighbor’s house. Instead of just leaving the peace offering in the mailbox, I rang the doorbell. I heard Arledge barking like crazy on the other side of the door and my neighbor yelling at his poodle to be quiet. For a moment, I wondered whether I was doing the right thing. But it was too late. The door opened. I handed the balls to my neighbor. “These are for Arledge.” The next morning we were all in the park again. All the dogs got along. All the people got along. I carried along some extra balls and left them behind, just in case.

Left Behind

He left his books behind. They are piled there next to the bed he shared with Mama.

His pillow is still crumpled up. Mama has kept to her side of the bed.

He left his shoe shining kit. Guess he won’t need that out there on the Outer Banks.

He left his white shirts and his work pants and he left me.

He took his cigarettes and his lighter and he walked right out that front door and he didn’t look back and he didn’t say goodbye and he didn’t tell me why he was going or where he was going but I don’t think he is coming back.

The house is quiet now. Mama doesn’t smile anymore. I feel like crying but I don’t want to make her mad.

I am just like my daddy. She told me so. I am lazy and good for nothing and I don’t pull my own weight.

One day I will leave too, but I don’t know that yet. When that day comes I will leave behind the white clock radio I got for graduation and the poster of King Kong. I will leave my Phi Mu pin and the notes from Philosophy 201 and International Relations. I will just walk out the front door and I won’t tell anyone where I am going or why I am going or when I am coming back. But in my going away I will finally understand why my daddy left me behind.

When My Mother Told Me

When my mother told me that clothes made the woman, she was wearing a ragged housecoat with a pack of Pall Malls in the pocket and a rip on the sleeve. Her knees were red from scrubbing our old linoleum floor with a mixture of lye and laundry soap

When my mother told me to cram all the book learning in my head that I could, she was standing over an ironing board pressing my daddy’s work shirts with one eye on her soap opera – The Guiding Light – and the other on my baby brother who was running around the kitchen with a wet diaper hanging from his backside.

When my mother told me that I could be whatever I wanted to be she was scrubbing our clothes on an old laundry board. The water was cold and her knuckles were red.

When my mother told me that she wrote me every day in her mind and I was the only one of her kids she never worried about, it had been five years since I had seen her face. Two months later she would die before my mother could ever tell me anything again

A Piece Of Perfect Fruit

She caresses his tiny head.
Her stubby fingers touch the soft crown.
She lifts his mouth to food.
He pulls back.
Leaving an apple sized space between her breast and his mouth.

Some were naked. Some were dancing in each other’s clothes.

She sweeps the toy soldiers and bits of apple peel from the table
and lays down her clean white cloth.
She spreads a feast.
Some were naked. Some were marching in each other’s clothes.

She is weeping now.

It has come and gone.

Leaving nothing but darkening flesh, a woody stem
and an apple shaped hole in her son’s breast.
Some are naked. Some are dying in each other’s clothes.

Love...In Honor of Valentine's Day

"Love asks us that we be a little braver than is comfortable for us, a little more generous, a little more flexible. It means living on the edge more than we care to.” Norman Mailer

This morning a little after 4:00 I was awakened by the sound of my husband checking to see if he still had laryngitis. “I DO sound normal. My voice DOES sound normal.” Part affirmation, part sound check. From behind the bathroom door he (loudly) tried out his voice. The dogs sat up and cocked their heads as if to say, “Has he totally lost his mind?” A few minutes later he returned to bed. Seeing that I was awake he asked, “How does my voice sound?” I just groaned and turned my back to him. So did the dogs. It isn’t like he is a singer or a yodeler or a broadcaster or an auctioneer…but he is a hypochondriac. Unable to get back to sleep, after 30 minutes of tossing about in the bed I was sharing with a Samoyed and Dalmatian and a now soundly sleeping husband, at 4:30 I got up and wandered about doing chores. I actually enjoyed my hour of domesticity. The sun rising over the winter wonderland that was my front yard. The muted (I kept the volume down so I wouldn’t disturb John) reports from yesterday’s Olympics. The first cup of coffee. Morning stretching. A little writing. At 5:30 John came into the kitchen. “Why did you get up so early?” I just smiled.

Learning to Drive

I didn’t learn to drive until Steve told me he was leaving me for another woman. We were living in West Palm Beach in a two room apartment over Mercedes Gomez’ garage. We slept on a mattress – no frame, no box spring, just a mattress. We were lying on that mattress when he told me he was leaving. Nothing between me and the floor but a thin mattress. Nothing between me and loneliness but Steve. And I didn’t even know how to drive. The next morning as soon as I got to work I called Aunt Gladys. “Aunt Gladys, Steve is leaving me and I don’t know how to drive. I’m almost twenty-four years old. My marriage is over. And I don’t even know how to drive.” The next day she picked me up in her gold colored 1972 Chrysler and drove me to a remote part of Martin County where Paul had taught her to fire a gun. She put the car in park, got out and told me to scoot over behind the wheel. When she had settled herself in the passenger seat, fluffed her hair and checked her lipstick she took a deep breath. “Okay. Drive.” I drove. If she hadn’t injured anyone with Uncle Paul’s pistol then I probably couldn’t do much damage with a Chrysler. “Ten o’clock and two o’clock.” I realized she was telling me where my hands should rest on the steering wheel. This was before airbags. Hell, it was before seatbelts. “When you turn, turn like this.” She demonstrated the way the steering wheel should move through my hands. “Don’t cross one hand over the other when you turn.” I was getting the hang of it, but there were no other cars within five miles of us. Aunt Gladys helped me study for the written test. I only missed one question. (When do pedestrians have the right-of way? The correct answer is all the time, not just when they are in the crosswalk like I said.) I passed the driving test in spite of the fact that I had learned to drive barefooted and had a really hard time driving with shoes on – still do. And Steve didn’t leave me after all – not then at least. He waited until four years later and by then I didn’t need him anymore.

Daring Adventures

There were lots of daring adventures growing up on Pungo Creek. Like the time the REA cut off our electric. Mama came in one night to find Aunt Blanche, Addie and me sitting in the dark staring at a blank television.

“Why are you idiots sitting here in the dark?”

Aunt Blanche didn’t move her eyes from the screen.” They came out this morning and turned off the electric, Frankie Mae. Said we were three months behind.”

“Shit!” Mama went into the front room and got the kerosene lanterns from the top of the piano. She put one on top of the television and one on Aunt Blanche’s Bible table. “Well at least we ain’t sitting in the dark, but how do we get the television to work?” Mama looked at me as she spoke like she expected me to answer her.

Lucky for me I’d been trying to figure out what to do. “Well, we could run extension cords across the branch to Uncle Roswell’s house and plug them in to the back of the television set.”

Mama lit her cigarette and stood there for a minute like she was thinking about my plan. She took a long drag on her Chesterfield and blew the smoke out before she said anything. “Where are we going to get an extension cord long enough to stretch all the way to Roswell’s?”

I’d thought about that too. “There’s lots of them out in the brooder house.” We used them to run electricity out to the heaters in the winter.

“Well I’ll be damned. I like it. It just might work. Let’s give it a shot. Come on and help me, Brenda. This was your idea.”

I think the thing that appealed the most to Mama was the notion of stealing from Uncle Roswell. We piled all the cords into the skiff and rowed over to Uncle Roswell’s boat house where we plugged in. Then we rowed back, stretching the cords along his dock and through the branch. “I think we are just going to make it, Mama.”

“That’s my girl. I swear and be damned. This is something your Daddy would have dreamed up. He would have been proud of you.”

...hopelessly flawed; shot through with rot

I climbed up the crumbling steps to what was once the front porch of the decaying, old house. There wasn’t a single unbroken windowpane, but the front door was padlocked. I stood on a rusted glider and crawled through a window. The floor of the entry hall was shot through with rot. Nothing moved but the dust motes that danced in the streams of light from the late afternoon sun. The only sounds were my own inhalation and exhalation and the pounding of my heart. The house smelled like liniment and snuff and something else I couldn’t place. Something sweet and pungent. The world on the other side of the padlocked door suddenly seemed far away and unreachable. I took a step. When the floor didn’t give way, I took another step. What was that smell? It was so familiar. I had played here when I was a child. Always alone. This was my secret place. The house had been abandoned for years. The last owners had left suddenly. They had wired instructions to their solicitor to dispose of the furniture and put the house on the market but the solicitor was hopelessly flawed. Before he got around to following his clients’ instructions he was arrested for shooting a man in the back. Justified, he said, because the man was crawling out of his wife’s bedroom window at the time. The judge didn’t agree. “A man in your position should be setting an example for the community. We aren’t a bunch of savages, you know.” So I guess the solicitor had more to worry about than selling the house. Strange thing was that apparently the owners never made any inquiry about the sale of the house. No one ever heard from them again. Rumors circulated about the house. Most of the tittle-tattle ended with decapitation, disemboweling or hidden crypts. From the time I was old enough to disappear without setting off alarm bells I explored the house from attic to cellar trying to uncover its secrets. I never found anything more sinister than some letters written in a language I couldn’t understand and a chest full of rosary beads.

Dark Aroma

The dark aroma of strong coffee rose up to meet her as she fumbled for the light switch. For the hundredth time she thanked the coffee gods for her automatic Cuisinart grind and brew. Keeping her eyes closed she let her nose lead her in the direction of the coffee maker. Her left hand found the mug. Her right hand made sure the opening was facing in the right direction before she poured the coffee. Only when she had gulped down half a cup of the miraculous mud did she open her eyes. Just a bit.

Still dark. Were it not for the rumble of the garbage truck one might mistake it for midnight instead of 5:30 am.

Another ordinary Thursday morning.

She swallowed her vitamins and washed them down with another mouthful of coffee.

She placed the mug on the counter and bent over to touch her toes. Standing forward bend. Relax. Fly away.

Thursday morning. She would stop at the gym on the way to work. Shower and change after her workout. She could relax a while before putting on the workout clothes that were probably still damp from yesterday. Their dark aroma festering in her gym bag.

She poured another cup of coffee and walked into the front room. She sat down without turning on a light, hugged her knees to her chest and sipped her coffee. Bliss. Relax. Fly away.

Her peaceful interlude came to abrupt end when she was joined on the couch by her two always exuberant canines. The Samoyed circled clockwise several times before settling comfortably at her right knee. The Dalmatian straddled her and quickly delivered 22 Dalmatian kisses. “Too much tongue, Darcy,” she laughed as she hugged the liver-spotted dog. The dark aroma of last night’s Science Diet now mixing with her tepid coffee.

Spit

She learned to tread carefully around the little house on Pungo Creek. Grandmama and Granddaddy weren’t particular about where they put their spit cans. The spit cans had been around since before she was born and they had the right of way. Grandmama spit Peach Tree Snuff and Granddaddy spit Beechnut Chewing Tobacco. Both spits looked the same in the cans. When she wasn’t spitting Grandmama polished her three remaining teeth with a “toothbrush” she has gummed into a functional device from a green twig. “This is what the Indians used to clean their teeth,” she explained to her granddaughter who, as usual, was standing a safe distance away. When she wasn’t polishing her teeth, Grandmama kept her “toothbrush” in her Bible. She was never far from her Bible or her spit can. Granddaddy preferred Our Daily Word. It was more portable than a Bible. He kept a copy in the pocket of his blue chambray shirt. Unlike Grandmama, Granddaddy sometimes misplaced his spit can and when that happened he just spit. Sometimes at the woodstove. Sometimes in Grandmama’s can. Sometimes in the pots of cactus that lined the windowsills. Sometimes he missed. It was fortunate that Granddaddy spent most of his time outdoors.

Where Do 5 Years Go?

Everything since John Lennon’s death seems recent to me. He died 25 years ago today so five years is just a twinkle of an eye. I peeked at my “Daily Prioritized Task List” for December 2000. My life hasn’t changed much but there are differences. I only had one mortgage then. We hadn’t bought the house on Mill Creek. I had just begun sponsoring Leslie. Hard to believe I have been her sponsor for five years. I had 17 years then and thought I knew everything. Woody was still alive but he had just begun to suffer from incontinence. Correction: we had just begun to suffer from his incontinence. I don’t think it bothered the old dog a bit. Five years ago this week I took him to Dr. Wardell for the first time. He gave him some pills that helped a little. Luke was born in December 2000. He weighed just three pounds fourteen ounces. I visited Bob and Julie at Fairfax Hospital the day he was born. Bob was so excited I thought he was going to implode. I went with Julie to the neo-natal clinic to see Luke. He was so tiny. She was dying for a cigarette. Last Monday Luke went with John, Bob and Jeff to the BB&T Basketball Tournament at the MCI Center. Luke loves all sports but NASCAR is his favorite. I made the last payment on my green Camaro convertible in December 2000. Two years later I emerged safely from my mid-life crisis and traded it for a Jeep Liberty with heated leather seats and a moon roof. I still had the Sheet Metal Workers account five years ago and judging from the amount of time I spent meeting with their attorneys and risk managers I earned every dime I made on that account. John’s mother was alive. I mailed her a birthday card on December 26, 2000. On December 8, 2000, there is a note to “Call for Dishwasher Repair”. On the 7th my Spiritual Formation Group met at my house and I had made Zen Hash – a delicious combination of spinach, onions, zucchini, pine nut and rice. Whoever helped me load the dishwasher after dinner didn’t scrape the plates because the dishwasher repairman found the drain completely clogged with rice. I saw the Caps play the Bruins and the Lightning. I had hockey tickets then. They were one of the things I gave up when I got serious about my writing.

Just Right

You will recall that when we left our narrator on Friday, she was going to adopt a beagle named Snoopy.

She went with Papa Bear and Arlo Bear to meet Snoopy at the Annandale Animal Hospital. “We’re here to meet Snoopy.” The Vet’s employees were perturbed because their lunch had been interrupted. Begrudgingly, Hazel (the least perturbed) brought out Snoopy so everyone could get acquainted.

It was not love at first sight. If Arlo could talk he would have said “Mama Bear, get me out of here. This beagle is crazy.”

Mama Bear would have agreed.

It was a sad trio that left Annandale Animal Hospital as Hazel led the wildly barking beagle back to his puppy jail. Especially Mama Bear.

Papa Bear agreed to make a stop at the Lost Dog and Cat Rescue Open House on the way home where they made their way through a plethora of beagles. “Did I miss the news about the beagle population explosion?” asked Mama Bear. She was about to give up when she spied a timid liver spotted Dalmatian. “Look, Papa Bear! She’s not too large, not too small…she’s just right!!” Darcy the Dalmatian had a very sad story. Her owner had gone to jail on November 2nd and Darcy had missed being put to sleep by just a few hours. Since November 2nd she had been living in an animal shelter. Most people want puppies. Darcy was three years old.

Papa Bear looked skeptical. He hadn’t seen what Mama Bear had seen. It wasn’t looking good. Sadly Mama Bear followed Papa Bear and Arlo Bear back to the parking lot where Papa Bear saw the sad, sad expression on Mama Bear’s face.

“Oh, alright! Go get her.”

That’s how Darcy came to live with her new family where she will live happily ever after.

Afraid of the Light

She approached the day marker warily. She didn’t like day markers, channel markers, buoys, blinking lights in the middle of vast bodies of water. Haunting foghorns. Lighthouses casting their shadow of light across seas made treacherous by the rocks on the shore. All of these innocent navigational aids fed her loneliness. Made her feel mortal. Reminded her that she was lost. That she had always been lost. Against her will she forced herself to look at the day marker. At the osprey roost nestled in its belly. The giant bird surveyed her for a moment and then flew away making a great loud show to distract her from the four baby osprey that peeped over the edge of the well-constructed nest. The mother osprey called to her “Come away. Follow me. Ignore by babies. Hear me cry now.” An osprey had never attacked her though she knew they were feisty enough to drive bald eagles from their territory. She had been attacked by mute swans several times when she had been incautious enough to bring her kayak too close to their babies. She always forgave the swans. She loved them blindly. They were not mute of course. When they flew their wings sang out whipping the air into a froth of sound. She was afraid of the light. Red right returning. She navigated by the mole on her right arm. It was surrounded by a constellation of freckles hatched by the sun she should fear but didn’t. Darkness had fallen quickly. The creek was shrouded. The banks lost in night. The watery way home illuminated by those eerie lights that made her flesh crawl. What forgotten event had birthed this unnatural fear of buoys? Had she once been an osprey trapped on a day marker watching her mother spar with an eagle? Had she been a fisherman who died clinging to a clanging buoy praying for a rescue that never came? Does some dire buoy related fate lie in her future? "Go toward the light. Go toward the light. It’s waiting for you."

Persistence

Before he opened his mouth I knew I loved him – knew I would love him for a long time. Longer than I had loved the procession of men that had marched through my basement efficiency in the months between December and November. It was the early eighties. I was in my early thirties. My sobriety was still in it’s infancy – just eleven months old. John walked into the P Street meeting and stopped for a coffee before taking a seat in the circle. I nudged the woman who was sitting next to me and whispered, “I am going to marry him.”

When he got up to refill his cup my eyes followed him. He still hadn’t spoken. I liked his brown eyes. His full beard. Long hair. Flannel shirt. He was short. Not thin. Not fat.

“My name is John and I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi, John.”

“I just moved to Washington from New Jersey to go to law school. I brought everything I own in a 1979 Datsun that’s held together with bungee cords, but I know I’m doing the right thing.”

I decided to invite him to dinner but first I needed to have him vetted by my sponsor Paul. Women are not supposed to have male sponsors but Paul was Southern. Paul was a Poet. And Paul was the only person in AA that I had anything in common with. Besides Paul was loving me until I could love myself.

“Hi. Welcome to Washington. Would you like to have coffee with Paul and me at Martin’s?” I know now that John was such a coffee lover that he would have had coffee with Richard Nixon.

“Sure. I’d like that.”

Over coffee I noticed his New Jersey accent got more pronounced when he spoke passionately about things and he was passionate about everything. He used cream and sugar. Smoked Marlboro’s.

I kicked Paul and signaled surreptitiously that he could go. He left. Smiling a sad smile.

“Would you like to come over for dinner Wednesday night? There is a show on TV I have been looking forward to. The Day After. It's about nuclear war. It has Jason Robards in it. He’s in the program, you know.”

I was doing what I always did when I was nervous. I was talking too much. I sounded like an idiot. But he didn’t notice.

I made a peasant stew with tomatoes and sausages. Wore my prettiest dress. Made sure I had plenty of coffee. There was a moment of awkwardness when he noticed that the only piece of furniture in my efficiency was a four-poster bed. We ate on the bed. Later we made love on the bed. Slowly he moved his things into the efficiency. The Datsun was eventually towed away but John stayed.

Stingrays, Part 2

Steve studied the appetizer. He couldn’t identify it, but it looked inedible. “I give up. What the hell is that... stuff?”

Kathryn smirked. “Not much of a gourmet, are we? It’s calamari.”

Understanding dawned. “Squid.”

“Exactly. Now we’ll see whether I really do have you eating out of my hand.” Katie picked up one of the slippery critters, dipped it the accompanying marinara sauce, and raised it to his lips. “Open up.”

Crap! He hated calamari. He’d tried them in Italy, and in his opinion, they had the consistency and taste of rubber. “The things I do for you,” he grumbled.

“The things you won’t do for me,” she answered with an intimate smile.

He leaned toward her, opened his mouth and accepted her dubious offering, licking the sauce off her fingers as she withdrew them. Then he looked into her eyes. “The difference between me and the stingrays is, I won’t leave when you run out of squid.”