Carioca Fletch

Six

“Restless.”

“Of course,” she said.

This was the third time he had gotten out of bed in a half hour.

The first time, he went to the bathroom and drank from the bottle of mineral water. Then he tried snuggling up next to Laura so that all of his front touched all of her back. She breathed deeply, asleep. The second time he put his head through the drapes and saw the daylight of another morning. No electric lights were on. In bed again, he tried lying straight on his back, his hands folded across his chest as if he were in a coffin, and breathing deeply. Even at that hour, from somewhere in the city he could hear the samba drums.

Now he put on his light running shorts.

Laura raised her head from the pillows and looked at him.

“I’m going for a run on the beach,” he said. “Before the sand gets too hot.”

“Okay.”

“I can’t get to sleep.”

“I know,” she said. “Poor Fletch.”

She put her head back down on the pillows.