Slow Wine

Slow Wine It's been three years since that plane departed Miami. They landed in Madrid, Spain, and spent several days in Seville and Ibiza before taking another flight as Mr. and Mrs. Devereux to Brussels. After spending three days sampling some of the world's finest champagne and chocolates, it was off to Trinidad and Tobago. They landed in Trinidad on a Thursday, armed with the few belongings they were allowed to keep. For her, it was her mother's necklace—not worth much on the open market, but it meant the world to her. "It even smells like Mom," she thought. For him, it was his grandfather's Lord Elgin watch, elegant in design and timeless. If they were forced to sell it, they could probably get $500 USD for it. To him, it was a connection to the family he left behind and, for their sake, a reminder that there wasn’t a minute to waste. In three years, he hadn’t had to sell that watch, and she kept her mom's necklace. They'd actually thrived. They moved on from Trinidad and settled into a life on a lovely little island named Antigua. They’d been together. He made his living as a day trader, while she kept busy taking care of the education of local children. If a child didn’t know how to read, she taught them to read. If a child had no food, she fed them. Most nights, they traveled to a small bar near their villa to watch game shows, drink, and dance with the locals. On weekends, they traveled to other islands they considered safe, sometimes on foot but often by plane. They didn’t stop. They adopted three dogs—one rescued from a shelter and two imported from Europe. They still hadn’t seriously discussed having children, but she hadn’t dismissed the notion. She had him all to herself, and he seemed content, but she feared he was growing restless. She wondered if he needed a change. She held these feelings inside for a while, scared to broach the subject. Still, there were moments when she sensed his restlessness. Once, he snapped at her because she drank the last can of his favorite drink—something he usually wouldn’t mind. Typically, he'd relish the idea of jumping on his bike and heading to the store, but on this day, he became upset. She couldn't help but feel that he was tired of her, tired of the life they'd built together. She questioned whether their decision to run away together had been impulsive. If only she could find the right words to ask: “Am I losing you to thoughts of another?” Maybe, she thought, she could be proactive and recruit a third person for them. She was still attracted to other women, though she enjoyed having him all to herself. Perhaps it was time to share. She had known his nature from the beginning—he had been brutally honest from the start. After all, they had a wonderful time with that one tourist girl after a wild night at the casino. She knew he loved her, but maybe, just maybe, it was time for something new. He stared at the computer screen as if his gaze could change the data. It wouldn’t change, not today. The truth was, he could go to the beach and come back, and the data would largely be the same. They used to spend more time outdoors—on islands, beaches, at museums, or tourist spots. Now, though, everything felt monotonous, stale. He knew his frustration was manifesting in ways he never intended. This wasn’t her fault. He needed something, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The wolf inside him needed to hunt, needed to thrive, to grow. He thought maybe they could buy the local bar or some small business. He wasn’t sure, but he knew he couldn’t keep taking it out on her. Pushing himself from the gray and black computer screen, he began to think. The sun was hot overhead that midday. He found her in the villa's courtyard, laughing and playing with kids and their three dogs, including the half-blind, arthritic rescue dog. It was so like her to love unconditionally what others saw as a burden. Now, she was teaching the neighborhood kids to do the same. He didn’t want to stop their fun, so he whispered in her ear, "Meet me at the Jeep in 30 minutes." She felt the warmth of his breath and smiled, turning toward him, closing her eyes, and nodding softly. When she made her way to the 1971 Ford Bronco, he was seated in the driver’s seat, the radio playing local calypso, and a bag of blankets set on the back seat. She giggled silently. "The beach, yeah?" He said nothing, just smiled a little and moved the truck into gear—they were off. The island was much smaller than the neighborhood he grew up in back in Chicago, yet it was now their entire world. They drove along the coastline, passing homes built into cliffs, the sound of waves crashing against the rocks. The sun was directly overhead. They came upon a farmer's market and decided to stop. They sampled fresh tomatoes for salsa, melon for breakfast, and he bought hops and barley for brewing beer. Everything was packed into the Bronco, and off they went. She felt a bit peckish under the sun but tried to tough it out. Eventually, she reached into the bag he'd packed for water. She would surely feel better soon, so they continued for a bit until they came upon an exhibit of an old British warship. The island, after all, was a British colony years ago before its independence. They were the only two attending the exhibit, so they walked through the small bulkheads, ducking as they made their way from the mess hall to the control room. He held her hand and reminded her to lower her head. They read little signs explaining the ship's seemingly ancient gear. She teased, "Is this the kind of stuff you used to do in the army?" She knew full well he was in the Air Force, not the army, and that this would annoy him. She smiled, and he grabbed her by the waist and kissed her deeply. "Oh, I’ll show you what I used to do in the military," he said. She welcomed his embrace and saluted playfully, saying, "Aye, Captain." They both felt the tension rising, but she couldn’t shake the queasiness from earlier. She grabbed his hand and led him out of the confined space, which had started to make her feel claustrophobic. He was confused—this was usually the kind of moment they wouldn’t pass up. Making love on a warship wasn’t exactly conventional, but it would have made for a nice memory. Still, he let her lead him out without protest. They drove around a bit longer before he asked if she wanted to go to the beach. She said she was feeling tired, so he decided the day was over and they headed for home. Before returning to the villa, he stopped at a store. He wanted a drink—the day hadn’t exactly gone as planned. The last leg of the ride had mostly been spent in silence. He parked the Jeep and went to open her door. She followed him closely but stopped as they approached the entrance. He felt the tug of her grip and turned as she threw herself into his arms. "I’m sorry, honey, I just feel... I don’t know, kind of sick, but I’m not sure." He kissed her forehead. "It’s okay, babe. Let’s just have a drink and watch the sunset. We can climb up to the roof of the villa," he said. She gave a faint smile. As they approached the store, he held the door for an elderly woman. It was mid-summer, about 82°F, and she was wearing a pretty yellow polka-dot dress and a black crochet shawl. She smiled directly at them and said, "Thank you, dear. You’re going to make wonderful parents." The two of them said in unison, "Thank you," and laughed, shaking their heads. Sometimes, no more words were needed. At home, they fed the dogs, checked the mail, and he shut down the laptop. She swept the villa floor, and he announced he was going to walk the dogs and asked if she still wanted to watch the sunset. "Sure," she said. He told her he’d be back in 10 minutes. He called for her again. She answered from the direction of the bathroom. He asked if she was alright. She answered weakly, but he didn’t want to make a fuss. He made the drinks and headed up to the roof via the skylight ladder, their usual access point. He always carried the drinks while she grabbed a blanket. But this time, she wasn’t following. He called for her again, this time a little irritated. She apologized, "Sorry, honey, give me five minutes." His blood pressure lowered, but a million little things ran through his mind. What was he going to do? Would he continue to day trade? Was this the right island? Did he want a new car? Should they buy a business or another house? Finally, she arrived, looking like she’d just seen a ghost but smiling. He had no clue what was on her mind. She sat next to him and said the four words he hated most: "We need to talk." No good conversation ever started with those words. "What the fuck," he thought to himself. Out loud, he calmly asked, "About what?" She didn’t know where to begin. She just knew that holding her feelings in had sucked. "Honey, how do you feel about us having a third person in our family?" He looked confused, surprised, and even a little annoyed before saying, "Babe, I haven’t thought about that in ages. It’s just not on my mind. Besides, who knows how long it would take to find someone compatible, someone we could trust." She stopped him. "It’s going to take about nine months, I guess." He stared at her incredulously. "What?" And then it hit him—the sickness, the time in the bathroom, the restlessness. Change was coming, just not the kind either of them had thought about. He poured the drinks down the gutter and held her in his arms. They kissed through tears of joy, proving that life has a way of throwing even the best-laid plans into flux.