Fletch Won

Barbara stood wrapped in a towel over Fletch in the Morris chair.

“You want to know why we’re getting married?”

“The world keeps asking,” Fletch answered.

She dropped the towel on the floor.

She stood before him in the dimly lit beach house like a sculpture just finished.

“This body and your body moving in concert through life, in copulation and out of copulation, coupled, always relating to each other, each movement to each, however near or separated we may be, will measure our minuet in this existence, tonight, tomorrow, and all tomorrows.”

Fletch cleared his throat. “I’ve heard worse poetry. Recently.”

“Are you coming to bed?”

“I guess I’d better.” Fletch stood up, thinking of the immediate tomorrow. “It’s now, or maybe never again.”