“May I ask you a question, oh husband of mine?”

“Anything, anytime.”

“Do you happen to know where the fuck we’re going?”

I hate being late.

Aaron seems confident, but this place is big. We’re ahead of schedule right now, but if we end up wandering aimlessly around, that won’t last long.

“Oh yeah. I got a map when I checked in.” He’s still shoving his key card in his back pocket as we walk away from our door.

“I didn’t get a map.”

Hotels and motels with directories posted on the walls are more my thing, this world of luxury resorts is still new to me.

Aaron smirks. “I did ask for it. They didn’t give it to me just because I’m good looking.”

He’s so ridiculous. Not that it isn’t true, but, dude, give it a rest.

For some reason, I’ve always thought men tended towards the deeply insecure—especially when they seem so outwardly conceited.

Aaron’s giving me a whole new perspective on that…he knows exactly what his assets are, and he isn’t shy about them at all.

Ever.

Grabbing my hand, he entwines our fingers. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you there.”

He’s right. By the time we walk into the air-conditioned spa, it almost feels normal holding his hand.

“Michaelson for ten o’clock,” Aaron announces, all business.

The sunny woman behind the counter smiles and highlights something on the clipboard she’s holding.

“Follow me, please.” She turns away, and we follow her into a small waiting area that’s empty except for us.

Pulling two clipboards from a rack on the wall, she hands us each one. “Please fill these out for us. Would you like a drink while you do so? We have tea, lemon water or coffee.”

She seems so genuinely interested in service, something I’ve noticed with all the staff here.

It’s a little different than what I’m used to in New York.

“I’ll take some water. Thank you.” I look at Aaron—he seems much more familiar with this whole luxury thing in general. For some reason, I’m interested in seeing how he handles all the little details.

“I’m great for now.” Aaron sits on the couch, so I sit down next to him.

The ray-of-sunshine receptionist is back with my lemon water immediately—I don’t know why I was expecting a paper cup, but of course, the water comes in a tall glass with ice.

I sip quietly while filling out my form. It’s pretty standard, asking about pre-existing medical conditions, massage focus points. Yet, it makes this massage seem like a bigger deal than I thought it was—not that I’d get cold feet about a massage.

Like everything else in this resort, the reception area is opulent yet low-key. The air smells like lilac, and the mood lighting is calibrated to destroy any overt or underlying anxiety.

A duo of masseuses, a woman and a man, file in as I finish.

“I’m Manuel and this is Celia. We will be doing your massages today. Have you completed your forms?”

I hand mine out wordlessly. Celia takes it smiling from me. She looks over it briefly, and Manuel does the same with Aaron’s.

“Please follow us.” Manual leaves the room first, and Celia holds her arm out, signaling for me to follow him.

As we’re ushered into the massage room, the Caribbean resort starts to feel like an otherworldly retreat even more isolated from the stresses of the world. The massage room is spacious and dimly lit, with the same lilac scent along with other subtler, but equally soothing, floral aromas.

“You can use these cabinets here to store your clothes. Please take off as much as you feel comfortable with, including jewelry, and then lay down faceup under the sheet. We’ll be back shortly, so just try to relax.”

Walking out, they shut the door quietly behind them.

Of course, Aaron wastes no time in removing all his clothes and happily tosses them into the wooden cabinet.

I’m still in shock. How did I get myself in this situation again? Oh yeah. It’s a free massage, and the ambience won’t allow any hint of tension to last for long.

With my back to Aaron, I pull my shirt over my head and add it to the pile. Removing my earrings, I put them in the little basket and then unhook my bra. Dropping it down my arms, I put it on top of my clothes.

Do I take my underwear off?

That’s how it’s done here, I guess, and I’ll look like a prude if I don’t.

Besides, what’s the big deal? He’s already seen everything.

For some reason, that thought doesn’t make me feel any better.

Stepping out of my underwear, I throw is as quickly and casually as I can into the cabinet.

I’m relieved to see that Aaron didn’t take the table closest to me. I try to be cool as I move towards it—at what I hope looks like a leisurely pace even though I feel like sprinting.

Arranging the sheet over me for maximum coverage, I hear him again.

“This is a weird fucking painting.”

What the hell is he talking about?

Swiveling my head, I see Aaron—in all his naked glory—standing in front of the designer painting with his hands on his hips.

“Uh, yeah, It’s different.” I can’t really see it that well with the dim light and with him standing in front of it. But who could focus on the painting with his naked butt in front of it?

He turns away from the painting and starts circling the tables.

When I close my eyes to relax, all I see is his backside, plus the ripped muscles in his arms and the indentations in his butt cheeks.

Fucking hell.

I hope this massage relaxes me.

“What do you suppose this is?” He’s on my left and my eyes pop open at his question.

He’s holding a bottle with sticks hanging out the top.

“It’s a diffuser.” I whisper. “Put it down!”

Sniffing it, he shrugs and casually puts it back on the shelf. His cock is literally eye level and less than a foot away. My gaze is drawn to it, but I think that’s just gravity—it’s a dick with substantial mass.

The atmosphere is suddenly less relaxing, though.

Taking a deep breath through my nose, I exhale slowly through my mouth and focus on a point on the ceiling.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

His feet make a shuffling sound on the tiled floor as he continues making his way around the room. Thankfully, he doesn’t say any more as he finishes his perusal, and finally lays down on his table.

Less than five seconds later, there’s a light tap on the door before it’s cracked and then opened.

Celia moves to the far corner and turns on some soothing soundtrack with ocean waves and chimes.

“Are you newlyweds?”

At Manuel’s question, Aaron and I look at each other.

Aaron’s quicker than me, and answers in the affirmative. “Yes.”

“Wonderful, wonderful.” His voice is soothing, and I’m still looking at Aaron as Manuel moves to his feet and Celia does the same to me.

Rolling back the sheet to my upper thighs, she starts oiling her hands, and, within seconds, I feel her warm hands start manipulating my feet.

“I’ve been married for twenty-five years, and it’s not always easy.” Manuel seems just old enough for that to be believable—not a wise old man type by any stretch—yet his voice is full of calm knowledge.

Aaron winks at me and I realize I’m still staring at him.

“But it’s definitely worth it. Sure, it’s easy for the first little while, in that first blush of being in love, but start adding in kids and work and money issues. And that honeymoon enthusiasm you feel for each other, that starts to fade.”

There’s a brief pause, and I think Manuel’s done. Finally.

But no.

“The key is to not give up when it starts to get hard, and to keeping working at it. It’s not easy for any couple, but you can’t just walk away. At the end of the day—or year, or life—you still have the most important thing: each other.”

The disgust must show on my face because Aaron is so clearly trying not to laugh.

Smirking at each other, I hold in my own laughter as we share our private moment of amusement at poor Manuel’s expense.

I see no sign that Manuel doesn’t believe every word of his sappy, kind of sweet but really fucking cheesy speech.

“It’s important to keep the spark alive sexually, too.”

What? Is this really where he’s going now?

“The honeymoon’s always hot but remember to keep the spark going. It just takes some creativity.”

That’s it. I look away from Aaron as I realize my face in on fire.

Feeling the heat, I try to concentrate on what Celia is doing to my legs. Breathing in through my nose and slowly out through my mouth. What is wrong with people? How can they feel it’s okay to just start spewing helpful advice like that to total strangers?

Maybe it’s some big joke. Does he actually believe what’s coming out of his mouth?

Or, do long term married couples just figure that if they’re miserable, they should point the path behind them, encouraging everyone else to join in on the fun?

A free massage, and I’m wasting it worrying about this bullshit.

I need to quit thinking and start relaxing.

Easier said than done, as my thoughts drift back to Aaron and our honeymoon suite negotiations.

I feel a weird, tingling sensation not just at the massage’s current focal point, but all over my body. Almost anticipatory.

It feels odd, but it’s so nice that I figure it must be part of the massage—some sort of endorphin release, triggered by relieved tension.

Celia is nearly finished with my legs, and it feels like years of useless weightiness and pressure are evaporating into the air.

It feels wonderful.

Using my own body weight, she’s getting to pressure points in my hips and even to points above. She’s being as thorough as she needs to be, channeling every bit of toxic tension.

As much as I don’t care for how things went sideways with Aaron showing up, it’s had its upsides, too.

I wouldn’t be here enjoying this massage if it wasn’t for him.

I guess it’s true that you have to take the good with the bad. There’s a little of both in everything. Maybe that’s what marriage is like. Acknowledging that both good and bad exist, but working together through the problems you have some control over, supporting each other to weather the problems you don’t, and building upon the good that is there.

Yet with all that effort to build and maintain a strong marriage, what’s the end game?

I’m happy to lead my own life and save the fucking effort.

The massage is nice and quiet now.

Maybe Manuel saw me blush earlier and realized I’m uncomfortable, because nothing else is said for the rest of the massage.

Thank fucking God.