Al Steiner: Doing It All Over

I continued to stare at Nina, at her firm breasts, her bare thighs, her scarred but still flat stomach. We are happy together, still deliriously in love after more than fourteen years of marriage. We make love at least twice a week, often more. We sit together on the couch or in the bed or on the deck outside after she gets home from a day at the hospital and we do what we have always done best, we talk. Nina is still my best friend but she is still ignorant of the secret that I carry. She had no idea that a cosmic clock had nearly ticked away our life together. And she never will.

As if sensing my thoughts she mumbled in her sleep, rolling to one side, kicking the last vestiges of the covers off of her body. Her eyes opened and she saw me standing in the doorway, looking at her.

"Bill?" she asked sleepily, stifling a yawn, "what's the matter?"

"Nothing Babe," I told her reassuringly, "I was just checking on the kids. Go back to sleep."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

I gave her a smile. "Perfectly okay," I assured her. "Everything is just fine."