Margo’s hair, like our relationship, is a wrecked spider’s web in the wind sweeping the lakeshore. We’d slept in an abandoned shack after capsizing our canoe in a squall, swimming furiously for land, our gear lost beneath the turbulent swells.
Margo looks frustrated, untethered.
“Get outside your comfort zone,” our marriage counselor had advised.
Nature was what we chose. Margo and Mark. Perfect princess and prince of wealthy, urban W.A.S.P.s. We’ve got two kids. The seed of another.
We scan the horizon hoping for signs of rescue. Margo storms back to the shack.
“THIS door stays shut!” she screams with finality.