We were at her cottage. She was all water water water and I was all cold cold cold. The truth was I was feeling fat. I still looked good lying on my back--who doesn’t?--but topless and standing? Few things made me as uncomfortable.

In fact, there’d been women in my bed with smaller breasts than mine. It’s called gynecomastia and it’s a goddamn curse. “Exercise like a bitch, eat right, so what?” That was gynecomastia’s motto. It’s like resistance and the amateur writer. The writer doesn’t stand a chance.

But she’s all water water water and tells me she doesn’t care what I look like. I believe her. She may be the only woman--the only person--I’ve known who seems to be honest, not to a fault, but always, always when it mattered.

I wade. I do it for her. She treads a few feet further out. Naked. She’s naked more than anyone I know. You think that makes you immune, right? You see skin 24/7 and it no longer does it for you, right? Let me tell you, when it comes to Beth, you’re wrong. With Beth, it’s the opposite. It suits her, nudity. She’s more comfortable that way, more beautiful that way.

She’s 3.5 years older than me and the most true looking woman I’ve ever known. A living, breathing Starry Night--the Northern Lights made flesh.

She climbs onto the floating barge and suns herself.

I swim up and hold onto the edge. The wood is slick from months and years in the water but I hold it anyway. Fucking trooper, I am.

“Why is it scarier to swim at night?” she asks. “Do we really think the dangerous fish come out only when it’s dark? The fabled Ontario Pirhana.”

“I don’t know. It just is.”

“You coming up?”

“I may go inside.”

“But I’m up here.”

“I feel like writing.”

“What are you working on?”

“I don’t know yet. Something.”

“I should write, too.”

She’s working on a story of her own. I haven’t read it yet, she hasn’t shared it, but she tells me there are wizards in it. I don’t know shit about wizards.

“How’s that going?”

“It’s not. Work...” I nod, absently. “What are you looking at?” She catches me looking her over. I’m not ashamed of it.

“You.”

“And?”

“You’re perfect.”

“Hardly.”

“Perfect for me.”

“That’s sweet.”

I lower myself in the water, take the lake into my mouth. I spurt it up onto her stomach and breasts.

“You hungry?” I ask.

“That code?”

“I believe so.”

“Here or there?”

“Here. Then there.”

She reaches down to offer me a hand up. I pull her in. We bob, face to face. We kiss and tread and grope. For no reason at all, I’m overcome, overtaken, by sadness.

“What’s wrong, boo boo?”

“Dunno.”

“Inside?”

I nod. We swim. On the beach, I say, “Lets have a kid.”

“Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re just hungry.”

“You’d be a great mother.”

“Aww. Thanks.”

“I’m serious. I mean, I’d be useless financially, but I’d be there in body and spirit.”

“That’s sweet, really.”

“But, no?”

She just smiles.

The next morning, I wake her by dragging slow, light circles across her stomach. It’s early but the room’s bright, the air crisp. She’s happy to be woken this way.

“What are you thinkin’?”

“Mmmm… pancakes.”

“There’s no syrup. How about an omelette?”

She nods. I get up, cook. When she enters the kitchen, she still hasn’t dressed. She sits at the table like she was destined to be there, now, nude, waiting to be served.

“Been thinkin’.”

“Yeah?”

She nods.

“‘Bout?”

“Babies.”

I lift her breakfast to her plate.

“And?”

“Were you serious?”

“I was.”

I leave the stove on, sit down across from her, hungry but too intrigued to turn my back on the conversation. She senses the situation--she always does--and slides her plate to the center of the table. I fork off a bit from the close side.

“I’m getting older.”

“Not that old.”

“Forty one.”

“I know.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes. I’m serious.”

“We’re not even a real couple.”

That’s my fault. I shrug. “That bother you?”

“Yeah. Well, no, not baby-wise, but you’re a jerk for making it so.”

“Agreed.”

“No strings?”

“One string.”

“Here it comes.”

“I name him.”

“And if it’s a girl?”

“She’ll have a guy’s name.”

***

She’s quiet on the drive back to the city. She keeps checking me out out of the corner of her eye. I keep pretending I don’t notice. I’m not very good at it and she laughs at my ineptness.

It’s getting dark fast and we’re quiet for the next five miles. Out of the blue, she smiles, loud.

“What are you smirking about?”

“You really want to know?”

I tell her Yes, I really want to know.

She pulls the car over to the shoulder.  She turns the hazard blinkers on.

“What are you up to?”

She steps from the car, closes the door. She tries to open the back door, but it’s locked.  I laugh. She opens the front door—reaches in—undoes the back door lock. She gets in the back seat, looks me right in the eye.

“Come here.” I struggle to climb over the car seat; I get stuck. “I’m with you because you do your own stunts. You know that, right?”

She takes me in her arms, pulls me over the rest of the way. We kiss. She says, “I love you.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

She kisses me. I tell her, “I want to promise you something.”

“Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m liable to believe every word you say.”

“You should.”

“Too many times.  Too many men...”

“Not this time and not this man.”

“Be certain--”

“I am.”

Another kiss.

“I will never lie to you. I will never take you for granted. And I will never leave you.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you didn’t mean it.”

I shake my head no.

We kiss. Soft. Vibrant.

She says, “Can we just make out? Here by the side of the road?”

“‘Til our lips bruise.”

She smiles, satisfied with my answer. She closes her eyes and brings her mouth towards mine. I witness a slight pause in her action as she comes closer. Something happens in that hesitation, something changes. We move on, emotionally, and our relationship peaks in that silent beat before our lips touch.