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NAO KAO
Every time Iconsidered telling her anything about my wife, I remembered Liss’s old horror.
Stop it, Nao Kao. You’re married. What are you doing?
What I am doing is enjoying Liss. She asked me once “what do we know that we don’t know we know?” “Plenty,” I replied, but when it came to omitting any mention of my wife, and later to dodging even her most direct questions, I could not plead guilty to knowing what I didn’t know I knew. I plead guilty to knowing – or fearing – how Liss would respond. I merely guided the conversation in other directions.
After the initial shock, when her name appeared again in my inbox, and then the first time she texted me, I was delighted to stroll down memory lane. Aside from attending a conference with me in Seattle once, my wife has never visited the U.S. She does not speak English. She often mistakes Michigan for Minnesota, the ease of which I understand, these two foreign-sounding places, each covered in snow somewhere in the vast American interior. I understand, too, how our memories of that time differ. What was for me a time of transformation and adventure was for her a time of hopscotching from one hardship to another, with our daughter’s touch-and-go bout with malaria the defining challenge of her days.
With Liss, I could reminisce freely, and indulge in nostalgia for a time and place that existed only in my memory – and hers. Beyond the ability to probe memories I had lost any hope of sharing, Liss brought levity to my days in the same ways that had drawn me to her originally. Yes, I could always depend on stimulating conversation, whether pertaining to politics or literature, but it was the mixture of exuberance and irreverence that kept me returning to the well. She deferred to me never, and poked me often.
“Wisdom comes with winters,” she texted in the depths of January, adding, “I think you’re in trouble.”
Then, the self-deprecation. “Of course, I have just set a pan of cookies on fire, which I’ve extinguished to great effect with my little red fire extinguisher. So, the snow doesn’t seem to be doing much for me, either. Bonus: my entire house smells like burning.”
She would write me of visits to the acupuncturist gone awry, and seek my opinion on matters of professional development. She was middle-aged, yes, and divorced, and knew that life was not always kind, yet she managed to offer the same sense of escape now as when we were young and on the cusp of everything. Liss was thirty-one flavors compared to the vanilla that surrounded me.
After so many years of silence, I will not risk her retreating again.
LISS
Good to hisword, Nao Kao slathered me with sunscreen when we arrived at the beach, equal parts disgusted by the glop he squeezed out of the tube and pleased to have a legitimate reason for running his hands over me so openly there on the beach.
“You have to make sure you get it everywhere,” I explained carefully, as one might to a child. “And rub it in evenly, so that I don’t have streaks of it smeared on me. Or burn where there wasn’t enough.”
Methodically, his fingers worked the lotion into my skin.
“Shhh, la. This is not rocket science. I think I can figure out how to put the lotion on your back.”
“I just want to make sure you do it right.”
I heard him laugh and knew if I could see him that he would be shaking his head gently.
He started at the base of my neck, where his breath was warm against my nape as he leaned close to tease apart the knot of the halter, then smoothed the lotion into me. His thumb and fingertips worked in a circular motion covering the exposed skin at the top of my back before he gently brought the straps back together, one lavender and one navy, and wove them again into a little knot. I eased myself up onto my elbows so that he could lift my top more easily to coat the few inches of skin that peeked between the halves of the bathing suit. His fingers slid under my waistband, lingering for a moment well beyond the reach of the sun’s rays. I shivered.
“I can’t believe you like this stuff,” he said, as worked his way back up, massaging more of the sunscreen into the small of my back.
“And the smell. You do this every time you are in the sun?” he asked, incredulously. His hands moved back down and onto the tops of my thighs. I turned over so that he could finish the stripe around my stomach. Speedos were much more practical for the pale people of the world.
“Sunscreen is the smell of summer at the beach,” I teased him. And then, more seriously, “And anyway, ‘like’ has nothing to do with it. Look at me: I’m the color of Casper. Do you know how fast I would burn?”
“Never had that problem.” We both laughed.
“Everyone can get skin cancer, you know. It might be less common for someone like you, but it can happen.”
I turned to face him, and he pushed the hair away from my eyes. The motion reminded me to pull it back, to make sure my part was completely covered.
I bent my head forward for him to tell me if any of my scalp was exposed. He kissed the top of my head.
“So, do you want some?”
He looked at my slyly.
“If I say yes, you’ll do it?”
“No, I’m going to get up and go ask the guy over there with the giant blue and white kite if he will rub it onto your back instead. Come on, Nao Kao. What kind of a question is that? What do you think?”
“I think you are ridiculous,” he said.
