My first time in the Maldives was with him.
By the time we checked in at Naladhu,
we had flown on a Cathay flight out of Hong Kong,
landed on the ocean,
on a runway we could not see, supporting the landing gear as we rolled towards the terminal.
Queued, got visas on arrival,
transferred by water taxi,
an uncomfortable hour-long ride on a bouncing boat.
I needed to concentrate on breathing and not throwing up.
He grew up on pleasure junks in Hong Kong,
swam competitively all his childhood,
a water rat comfortable in and on water.
I grew up waiting tables at my parents Chinese restaurant.
By the time I took my clothes off and stepped naked
into our private pool tiled
blue
green
aquamarine,
suspended above the ocean waves,
he handed me our things,
like a good husband.
My bras in drawers,
our clothes hung.
Our toiletries placed.
My space arranged.
The bathroom,
floor-to-ceiling windows,
looking over the Indian Ocean,
private,
a free-standing bathtub, bright, white by the window,
large enough for two like in Bali all those years ago.
We walked the suspended wooden planks back to shore.
Seafood dinner day one.
Day two I had bought us a holiday club membership,
upgraded us to a private villa on the other side of the island,
built on shoreline rocks above the waves.
Our babies one and two had stayed at home,
with their nanny.
It was just him and me.
My body slowly tightening again
after having had two babies in two years.
One arrived sooner we dared to hope.
The other unexpected and unannounced
until she was four and a half months nested in my womb.
I dropped contraception near our wedding,
planning it would take one or two years to get pregnant.
We conceived the first time.
My body miscarried.
Petra followed soon after.
Padme came the first night he was home from Canada after weeks away.
We dined like adults,
held fingertips,
flirted like lovers.
I showered for him
I showered with him
I showered him with my body.