Grace was a fine woman. I loved her and her taste in men…after all, she liked me. When you both are widowed, there’s a kind of openness to a mature relationship. We’ve both ‘been there/done that’ with long sincere marriages, children, retirement. It’s a kind of agreement to enjoy the moment while we can. So, there we were in the formal garden of the Alcazar palace in historic Seville. Beautiful. Serene. Chest high, carefully trimmed hedges created a twisting, turning maize of pathways into the exotic world of Arabian nights.
The only problem was that I had to take a leak and we were on the ground level and the lavatories were up and behind the surrounding second-story balconies. Not wanting to break the enchanted mood by a sudden departure, I leaned close to the hedges in our narrow lane and watered the plants.
Grace said, “Do you hear water running?”
I zipped up and sighed in relief.
Her forehead wrinkled. “Wait,” she said, “did you just…?”
I just squeezed my lips and shrugged.
You know, there can come telling moments in relationships at the most unexpected times. Turns out this was one of them. Grace didn’t speak to me over our snack of coffee and rolls, and during our walk back to the hotel, and actually for the rest of the day. Who knew that my sweetheart was so sensitive? But I guess every relationship finds a moment when attitudes and feelings get exposed for the first time. Too bad we had to cross the Atlantic and enter an 8th century Muslim palace to find a tell-tale moment of truth.
I tried to keep my cool. I knew it wouldn’t do me any good to justify or deny what I did. I also wasn’t going to apologize. The little boy inside of me was chin-out and stiff jawed.
The next morning at breakfast, I accidentally knocked over my water glass. Our waiter grabbed the towel off his wrist, sopped up the spill and then squeezed the wet rag into the flower pot on the table. I caught Grace’s eye, lifted my shoulders and eyebrows…as if to say ‘see, guys know how to deal with excess fluids.’ It took a moment, but her lips curled slightly. Then we chatted happily for the rest of breakfast.
Retired trainer, and writing instructor, Joe Novara lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan. Writings include novels, short stories, a memoir and various poems, plays, anthologies and articles. Read more at https://freefloatingstories.wordpress.com/