The Affair
‘No egrets’ we agreed. Our little joke.
None for your whispered nylon songs.
None for the bottle of peppery Gewürz and your long white fingers curled so delicately around the stem of the glass.
None for the rare frowns and the embarrassed laughs and your occasional glance in the mirror to check who was in the bar.
None for the magnolia-white flesh or the crisp whisk of sheets pulled back, none for the sound of the shower running, none for the towel-turban wrapped around your hair dark as walnuts.
No egrets. None at all. None.
Not even for the postcard you left on my desk—a marsh in the Carolina Low country with a stately white bird identified as Egretta Thula—and a hastily-scrawled note on the back. ‘The holiday is over—it was lovely while it lasted.’
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