April 25, 2018

My dearest,

We never remember to put on sunblock. We frolic in the sun, swim in the sea, the sand between our toes, and then we suffer the consequences. The flushed skin, the sting. (We’d do well to invest in aloe vera gel but we’d probably forget that too, the way we do with our sunblock.)

Now it’s a few days later. The skin on your back is starting to peel, pale-white spidery fabric. Webs? No. More like snake skin, sloughing off in a most ungainly manner.

You show me your threads, proud as a new father. You peel one piece off and offer it to me. It’s precious, you say, this snake skin of yours: it’s only for me.

These silly things you do, you do them only for me.

Yours, ever and always.