I slipped out of my dress once I was back in our room; the hem was damp from walking along the beach. We hadn’t redone the laces as tightly as normal, so it was easy to get off, and I dropped it in a pile on the floor. Alistair just watched me, his brow furrowed with concern as I crawled into the bed with a sigh. He perched on the edge beside me and I reached out and grabbed his hand.“I’m sorry,” I murmured. He frowned in confusion. “I didn’t mean to run.”He lifted my hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to my knuckles. “I wasn’t worried about that,” he dismissed. “There’s a difference between running away, and running away from me.”I smiled, my eyes drifting shut. “I love you.”When I woke, the sun had moved enough that I thought it was probably afternoon. I sat up, groggy, rubbing my eyes and blinking at the light. When I looked around, I noticed my husband reclining in a padded armchair near the window, his legs sprawled out in front of him, fast asleep. The table beside him held a. " What could he mean by that? His comment feels ripe with innuendo, but she can't figure out what he is implying. It is just small talk, she berates herself. Stop reading anything into it. "They're fine." A non-committal response, but she can't think of anything better to say. Over the next 20 minutes, she lets herself be carried by the current of habit. With some clients, every moment cutting their hair feels like an eternity. Not because of anything they say or do. But because of their demeanor, their distaste at the thought of being waited on. Her job is a service job. That type of client doesn't know how to be served. They cannot bear to think of themselves as having power over another person, even temporarily. They insist with their body language, with every fiber of their being, that everyone is equal in every situation.Not so with him. He accepts his role, and in doing so, allows her the freedom to step fully into hers. She exists in that moment to perform her craft. She exists.
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