Chapter 51
We spent our final night at the beach imagining a permanent life in Mexico. For once, it wasn’t me who brought it up but Tom, stepping from our casita with a drink in each hand.
“Could you ever imagine living here?”
I laughed in delight. “Here in this town, this hut, what?”
“I mean, yeah, sort of. Having a different kind of life.”
I looked at him, hesitating out of a fear our fantasies would diverge too starkly.
As a boy, he’d been fascinated by books like Robinson Crusoe.
His fantasy of life in Mexico would likely be about having less, living a simpler life.
Whereas mine, it appeared to me with sudden clarity, involved having more, a richness not available to us in the States.
I felt a quickening of anticipation, imagining his disappointment in me, even scorn.
And as if to provoke him, also because we were leaving and I was suddenly frightened about what awaited us, I said:
“If I’m being honest, I don’t want some alternative life. I want a house like Bill’s, filled with beautiful furniture and art.”
He didn’t react the way I’d expected. He laughed warmly. “My beautiful little materialist,” he said, as though it had all been a joke.
Shortly after, we went to bed and lay naked with our legs spread into wide Vs, sweating and holding hands. For the first time since arriving, we fell asleep without making love.