Fifty-two
The Aquarius was a bar tucked down a narrow side street in Chora. Skye arrived early, a little before one thirty, and chose one of the outside tables. She wanted to see him coming.
The past few hours had rushed by in a blur. There had been a lot to do. A lot to say.
Skye uncrossed her legs, pressed her hands on her knees to stop them from jiggling, took a napkin from the dispenser and tore it into strips. She had changed into a white dress and sandals, applied makeup, and brushed her unruly hair.
Looking the part was important.
Martyn arrived fifteen minutes late, shuffling awkwardly on his crutches. As he neared, Skye stood, greeting him with a chaste kiss on the cheek.
“Thanks for coming,” she said. “I thought we should talk, just the two of us.”
“So you said in your message.” Martyn stifled a yawn. He was in a black polo shirt and trousers, the bottom of one leg rolled upover the cast. A waitress appeared, and he ordered a beer, eyebrows lifting when Skye opted for a cocktail.
“Bit early, isn’t it?”
She shrugged.
“How did you sleep?”
Martyn pulled a face.
“Not well, though the painkillers did the trick. I don’t even know if they’ll permit me to fly with this bloody thing on my foot.”
“You should check in with the doctor before you go,” she said. “That’s unless you decide to stay awhile.”
His gaze swept over her, flat and unimpressed.
“Why would I do that? You’ve made it pretty clear that you aren’t interested.”
“I know,” she said, putting her elbows on the table, “but I’ve been thinking. Maybe I’ve been too hasty.”
Martyn narrowed his eyes.
“Is that so?”
Their drinks arrived. Skye’s cocktail glowing a lurid blue, Martyn’s local pilsner sporting a goat’s face on the label, the wordKatsikastamped beside it.
“It was wrong of me to just disappear on you,” she said, removing the pineapple garnish from her glass and taking a bite. “You must’ve been worried.”
“Of course I was,” he said, picking at a scab on his knuckle. “I went all the way to Australia in search of you.”
“I heard.”
“You made me look like a fool,” he said, turning to her. “A cuckold.”
Skye did not trust herself to reply. A couple strolled past in matching Hawaiian shirts, the tropical print clashing with the soft white of the buildings.
“Why this sudden change of heart?” Martyn demanded. “Yesterday, you couldn’t wait to be rid of me, and now you’re, what, sorry?”
She would choke before she uttered that word in his presence.
“We’re married,” she said instead. “We made vows. I guess this is me trying to honor them.”
She thought about those promises “to love and to obey.” Skye no more wanted to obey Martyn than climb into a basket with a cobra.
“What are you saying?” he barked. “That you want us to try again?”
