Maybe we will become that couple on the boat docked a few meters offshore. I can see them now, dancing. I don’t hear any music so I close my eyes, but all I hear is the lapping of the waves. I know they are older than we are because I spoke to them on the beach earlier. The man said our children and grandchildren let us escape for the month of February. The woman laughed and said we love the boat, and then she adjusted her sun hat. They are sleeping on their boat for three weeks, and tonight they are dancing.
What about the younger woman and the older man who live in the fancy house with the view and the abstract art? They are parents of a friend and they never seem to have any problems. I know they do, everyone does, but you know what I mean when I say that. The man is eighty-five and the woman is sixty-one. Some people gossip about the age difference but those people aren’t happy. We could become them, even though we are the same age. We could sell our house and buy something with a view. You can take up painting because I have no interest in that. I will take a Vietnamese cooking class and make spring rolls for our friends. You will pinch my bottom and I will throw my head back and say there he goes again.
Or we could be the man from work and the wife he sees every other weekend. They are happy apart, he says. She is studying medicine and learning to stay awake for thirty hours straight. I could stay up all night saving lives, and you could text me pep talks and finally learn Spanish. We could have things we forget to tell each other.
There is also the lesbian couple with the two children, one from each womb. They have tattoos and go to farmers markets on Saturdays. Two different markets because one has better tomatoes. We met them at a birthing class. I had to hold ice in my hand for one minute and you rubbed my back and asked me what I wanted to hear. After I said I want to hear it’s just ice so you can drop it, the pregnant one whispered, I want to tell her I’m never doing this again. The four of us laughed and I noticed their tongue piercings. They run a babysitting co-op and volunteer at the Jewish film festival. We could be like that.
You could get fit and make soft-boiled eggs, and I could get fat and read science fiction. Our nights would be perfect. We would watch the same shows, listen to the same music, and tell our children the same jokes. Everyone would look at us and say we could be just like them.
Nothing matters except the little things and we have all of those.