A Forty Year Kiss

15

In the morning, she was gone, but that evening, he sent her a text, and she responded, a bit coolly, a bit politely. Time seeped in, hours and then days, and time seemed to smooth away whatever she had felt, that shock. She never again asked him about Mona, and though he wasn’t ashamed of the photographs or his friendship with his second ex-wife, he stowed them in a desk drawer beneath some paperwork. He was ashamed that he hadn’t considered the photographs from Viv’s perspective. That he hadn’t considered the relative fragility of their renewed relationship, how tenuous everything was. How they were still relearning one another. Still healing old wounds. He made a note to take a photo of her on one of their walks. Or maybe a few photos, and have them tastefully framed. It wasn’t a capitulation or concession. He wanted a photo of her, photos of her. He wanted to begin filling this house with artifacts of their relationship. Reminders of her.

Something changed in their interactions, but he didn’t experience the change as bad, only—a lessening, a slowing. He told himself it was natural, even needed. They still held hands, still laughed, and kissed and made love, but the intensity seemed just slightly muted, like a DJ gently, imperceptibly, turning the volume down at a party. This was better, he told himself. How they had restarted was unsustainable, like a teenage romance bound to burn out. No, this was safer, wiser, calmer.

But he did miss that sparkle.