I tell him they look like they’re flying.
He says they look like wet pancakes.
We are not the same person.
I love him anyway.
• • •
At some point we end up in the gift shop because of course we do.
He buys me a small stuffed seahorse without being asked.
Doesn’t make it a thing.
Just hands it to me and moves on.
I stare at the back of his head for a full ten seconds.
He so wants me to get him pregnant.
He made me wait ten years and now he’s buying me stuffed animals in gift shops like it’s nothing.
I’m going to need some time with this.
We drive home with the windows down.
His hand on the gearshift.
Mine on top of his.
The radio on something neither of us picked and neither of us changes.
• • •
My dad is in the kitchen when we get back.
He’s attempting dinner.
He’s been attempting dinner a lot since my mom died.
She was the cook.
Everyone in this house is learning that the hard way.
Last week he made pasta and somehow burned the water.
The water, specifically.
We still don’t know how.
Tonight appears to be chicken.
He’s staring at it on the stove like it’s a puzzle he hasn’t solved yet.
“How were the fish?” he asks without turning around.
“Good,” I say. “We saw sharks.”
