We didn’t tell anybody we were going. We were going to pick up Bob from Denmark. We knew he was waiting. And we knew Peter wanted to get rid of him.
We hadn’t been spontaneous for at least a year. Before we left I had wondered what the point was, the world divided up into islands made of two. I didn’t want to belong to anyone. You didn’t want to belong to anyone. We yearned for spontaneity, and wondered if we were polyamorous. We mentioned it once to one another to test the water with our toes, then pulled them back. Too deep, too cold.
Bob was twenty five years old, which was already a little too old for what we had in mind.