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He pushes himself up on one hand.
Come with me, he says and waits for her answer.
3 months
The divorce is pretty much exactly what he had been afraid of. They were miserable for years, and now they finally have a good reason to just tear into each other. She more than he does, obviously. He's asking for the divorce; he's got the new girlfriend. But his soon to be ex-wife still gets to him. She may not love him, may never have understood him, but she does know him. She knows exactly what buttons to push. And he could deal with all that, but it's affecting Hank and its making him miserable.
He finds solace in Celine's arms and kisses after another fight and tells himself that one day, this is all going to be worth it, it's all going to work out. When the dust has settled, he and Hank will start over. And he's going to show him that you can be happy in life, what a good relationship looks like. Hank is going to have a living example, and he's never going to get caught up in a marriage he never had any business going into; he is not going to waste years of his life.
He lets Celine draw him down into her arms, and after, he cries onto her shoulder as she runs her fingers softly through his hair and sings him to sleep.
It's going to be worth it. It has to be.
1 year
They're in the middle of another fight, argument, discussion, whatever. And he loves the way she looks when her eyes are burning with passion and her breath comes just a little faster, a slight flush to her cheeks.
But he's getting tired of this, this randomness. And the teasing undertone is starting to disappear as the frequency increases - even as he can tell that there's something she isn't saying here.
She's getting restless and she's holding back. Like she's still waiting for some sign from God, that it's okay, okay to let go, that this is real and it's going to last. He doesn't have a sign from God or some other cosmic clue, but he does have something else.
He tells her to wait and disappears into the bedroom for a few moments. She doesn't quite know what to make of the tiny, crumpled duty free plastic bag he brings back. He tells her he bought it at the airport in Paris, the day he went back to New York.
Will you marry me?
7 years
She's lying awake, staring at the ceiling and listening to her husband snore.
Years ago, he talked about annoying habits and how they can drive you up the wall and until you start to hate each other. She told him that she would love knowing all of that, being so familiar with each other that you can predict their every move and action, even if it's annoying to most people.
And she was right. She does love his stupid stories, smiles at him indulgently when he pulls one of them out. Even on the hundredth repetition, she still listens. Sometimes to the story and the way he'll emphasize certain words, the parts that change, the parts that stay the same. Sometimes, she just listens to the cadence of his voice, which is comforting in a few things in life are. She will always be happy and warm and safe hearing it.
She's familiar with his snores, too. And those really do drive her up the wall, keeping her from falling back asleep. But, it still doesn't stop her from loving him, she thinks, and carefully pushes at his shoulder until he rolls over to his side and she can wrap an arm around him. She falls asleep again, feeling his chest gently rise and fall under her arm.
15 years
He flops over onto his back and tries to catch his breath. He stares at the cracked ceiling and marvels at the wonder that is a sex life after 15 years together, 13 years married. He is even pretty sure that he's having better sex now than he was having in his 20s or 30s. It should probably be illegal to have sex this good.
I think half the things we do probably are illegal somewhere, she grins at her own cheesiness and leans over him to kiss him again. And he gets lost in the familiarity of the feel of her lips and her body against his, the smell of her hair and the sound of her breathless little groans.
36 years
They're in Somalia, right now. It is hotter than hell and he's taking a break from writing his next book to watch her chat with a few locals that are always hanging out in the little lot across from the office of the organization she works for. It's a gathering place of sorts. They don't have much, but at least this part of the city is safe. There are kids playing soccer with a make shift goal, - they remind him of Hank, a little, back in the inner court yard of the apartment in the East Village. He must have been seven, or eight, when he had his big soccer phase, not much older than the kids here. And they remind him of his grandkids now, when they all spent part of their summer at his and Celine's house.
A little over to the side from the kids, the adults are sitting and talking and playing music. An old man is strumming on an old battered guitar that is missing a string; Celine is dancing and laughing, making up new lyrics or singing snatches of the song he doesn't know.
He captures that image in his mind, remembers other times she's looked like that. Younger versions of her, different stages in time, different hair, different clothes, different places, but always still the same. Words start to form in his mind, snatches of phrases that will eventually find their way to the page.
He smiles at her and then gets up to join her. He's in no hurry to write this particular book. After all, the story isn't anywhere near finished yet.