Thanks to darkniciad for helpful editing.
Michael passed through the kitchen, dropping the order of service on the table without much thought. In the bedroom he took off the black wool suit and hung it in the closet. What a useless gesture. He would never wear it again.
The phone rang. It was his daughter, Emma.
"I'm fine," he told her. "I'm just going to take a nap."
He dreamed he sailed his mirror dinghy out to sea. This made no sense at all, but dreams don't make any sense. When was the last time you dreamed you had an ordinary day?
In the dream, he had a long day of thirst and sun. He splashed water on his face, being careful not to drink it. He thought maybe he was going crazy.
The ocean made him think of a length of silk he had once purchased as a gift for his wife. The rumpled waves were the same green-blue. He remembered the look on her face when she opened the package -- her excited delight had been his reward. He indicated the crinkled texture. "How will you cut into it? I mean, how can you sew a straight seam with it all wrinkled like that?"
"Don't worry. I know what to do." Her beaming grin was full of confidence. The fabric aloft in her arms made a dark shimmering path. She played with it, making loops and shapes. Then she wrapped her arms around his neck. "Thank you so much for thinking of me."
"You're welcome." He smiled into her hair and folded her into his arms. "I love you, Lucy."
"I love you, too," and she kissed him with a heartfelt grace.
That night she wore the fabric to their bedroom, draped around her body like a sari. The creased fabric rode over her like ocean waves, encircling her hips, gliding diagonally over her chest and dropping in a graceful waterfall over one shoulder.
"Like it?" She turned in a pirouette so he could see.
"Hmmm...." he ran his hands over the silk, the weave feeling like a living thing, and found his wife's silken skin underneath. He caressed the place just below her waist, where the curve of her hip began. "You wear this well."
Her aquamarine eyes glowed into his. "I couldn't do it without you."
"Gee, I almost hate to take it off of you."
"Don't, then."
He bunched the forward-slash of silk between her breasts. Then he pulled her near, so she stood between his legs. His mouth descended to her left breast. Lucy moaned and hitched her back into an arc. She pushed her fingers into his hair.
The silk made a rustling noise, not unlike a soft booming of waves. Waves. Michael dipped his fingers into the softness of the green-blue skirt. The smoothness was like touching water. He lifted the yardage by the fistful, the way he had done in the fabric store when he chose it out for her. Up, up went the makeshift skirt, until he came to her wet musk. His tongue lapped at her saline tang.
The room spun. They fell back on the creaking bed, and it gave like a boat on the ocean. Something else shifted. The air was too warm. He was rocking, but his body was not moving, and his cheek pressed against something hard.
His eyes fluttered open. He was at sea. Apparently he had fallen asleep in the late afternoon sun. The waves made a rustling noise, like amplified silk.
