On Second Thoughts

It wasn't immediately visible. He extended his neck as far as he could, his eyes screwed up against the glare. The sun bounced its reflection off the water in blinding shards of sprinkled light as the waves lapped gently against the hull of the boat.

They had planned a lazy afternoon in a deserted cove; the sandy beach stretching far beyond the line of sight. Nobody ever came here. Ever.

Which was the problem.

Had she not stumbled against him. Had he not been teasing her, dangling the key over the edge. Had they not collided and giggled and toppled...

If he couldn't find it, they'd have to radio for help. If they radioed for help, there would be one hell of a furore. His future in office would be questionable and her reputation... well... It would be in shreds.

The afternoon delights they had had in mind were forgotten. She was screeching and howling, hurling abuse at him, and he was there, leaning precariously over the edge of the boat, looking for the key.

It occurred to him to query, in that ridiculous and vulnerable position, precisely what it was he had seen in her in the first place. Glancing back over his shoulder at this hysterical harridan, all he saw was a costume and war-paint. There was very little of natural beauty or grace. Everything was studied, polished, veneered, manipulated.

Unbidden, the image of her floating face down in the brine bobbed across his mind's eye to be rapidly dismissed as a luxury he couldn't afford. One thing was for certain: he wouldn't be calling her after today.

He found himself thinking fondly of his wife; something that hadn't happened in an age. She had not matured badly, considering the number of children she had managed to produce, but somehow she had little time for her appearance. Or for him, truth be told. He was surprised to discover he was looking forward to getting home.

And there it was! Glimmering between two rocks at the bottom of the crystal ocean; not too far down; just out of reach. He grasped a net and fished around for it, almost lost it, caught it, brought it to the surface.

Instantly she was smiles and coyness, full of apologies and endearments. It washed off him; left him cold.

Wouldn't it be nice to think he wouldn't do it again...? Wouldn't it?