My wife’s shoulders are a little pink. She fell asleep in the sun that afternoon after a long rosé-heavy lunch. We were on holiday in the Dordogne, and it was heavenly. I probably rubbed Nivea into her shoulders later that night like the lovesick fool that I was. One thing probably led to another. I wish I could remember the specifics. I wish I could remember every single time. Every moment. Behind the three of them is me, grinning like a fucking idiot, my face the stupid, oblivious kind of happy that only a man who has no idea what the future holds can feel.
