In the morning I make sure I am up before she is. At night I can hear her crying in our bedroom. We argue a lot more, and I can see the stress in her face. I feel like we both are ready to explode.I left the house one day, in mid October. I had an appointment with her doctor. I sat down with him and discussed the whole situation. "Shannon was completely healed up, and was ready, and able to continue normal sexual relationship." He assured me. "Maybe you should go see a psychologist. He had a doctor friend who was real good at this type of problem, and could set up an appointment, if I want to go see her," He suggested to me.I said, "go ahead see what you can do."He told me to wait out in the waiting room, while I go into my office and give her office a call. A few minutes later the nurse came and took me to his office. He was on the phone talking, and then looked at me, "is 11:30 this morning ok for you?" He asked me. I nodded yes back to him. He hung the phone up and told me how to. Every few minutes his eyes would drift over to me, he tried to hide it, but it only served to telegraph his stolen glances. It wasn’t long before I became restless. I sipped some warm water from a plastic bottle and slipped it into my bag. I stood and dusted the dry sand from my legs. The beach curved round for over a mile in either direction, thronged with people and burning in the hard sun. The heat haze hung on the white sand, merging the surf with the shore, the shore with the sky. I walked down to where the waves turned back to the sea, the compacted sand cool and wet. The breakers rolled in across the huge bay and wore away to a soft lapping that splashed my shins and tangled strands of kelp between my toes. Hector caught up, falling in step beside me. Did I have some place I needed to be? No, not really. He offered me a drink, I accepted. We wandered up along the beachfront and found a café bar. He pretended not to gaze long the lines of my bikini. I pretended to be interested.
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