By the time we checked into our suite at the Four Seasons, high above the Strip,
we slept on the plane from, Chicago,
navigated our way to a taxi past bright lights and one-armed bandits,
posed with Elvis in the lobby, wearing overalls white.
Inside,
I have my husband open the suitcases
and pass me our things.
Minutes later,
my bras in drawers,
our clothes are hung.
Our toiletries placed.
My space arranged.
He knows not to ask
before I’m done.
He suggests a shower and a quickie.
I accept the shower.
I decline the quickie.
I do have him rub cream onto my bum and back.
I have him lift my dress, cobalt blue, over my head.
By the time he’s nodding off at dinner at Picasso,
I’ve booked a day tour to the Grand Canyon,
we’ve been to a Sinatra tribute show,
me elbowing him.
I hiss:
“You’re sleeping.”
He says:
“I’m listening.”
I roll my eyes.