Aquamarine, Day 4

The stars blinked out under the vigilant eye of Marisa until she fell asleep from exhaustion. She woke up to a sunray in the balcony and groped the mattress to her side. In the cold sheets, she found the hollow contour of his body. Marisa jumped out of bed and knocked on the bathroom door. There was no answer. She opened the door. The bathroom was empty.

In fear that she and Marco had taken a path of no return, Marisa slipped into her clothes from the eve and darted out. She combed through the decks frantically, fragments of prayer mixing with the scene from the previous night, Marco facing the wall, she staring at the white ceiling, the tremulous rose in the vase merging with the snow of Toronto and the sterile distance stretching between the two of them.

Marco wasn't in the cafeteria or in the restaurants, wasn't at the pool or in the solarium, or in the library or at the rock climbing wall. Marisa finally found him at the gym running on a treadmill by the glass pane. He gazed at the sea, his hair damp with sweat, an absent expression. Marisa stood next to him and asked if he had eaten. Glancing at her, Marco made a negative gesture and concentrated on his run to nowhere.

"Why didn't you wake me up? I would have come with you."

"I wanted to be on my own."

"I see." Marisa twisted her hands, uncertain. "Can we have breakfast after you finish?"

He nodded, grabbed the towel hanging on the treadmill bar and wiped his forehead. Only then Marco stared at her.

"I'll see you in the cabin in an hour. If you're hungry, don't wait for me," he said, and focused on the sea.

Marisa left with sleepwalking steps. Wandering on the decks, she entered shops and examined goods she had no intention of buying. She rehearsed what she would say to Marco. It was the first time he disappeared after a fight. The first time he wished to be on his own. It hadn't been an argument permeated with raging insults and shouts. It had been quiet, restrained—and infinitely melancholic.

Was that how relationships crumbled?

Marco had opened a door to herself unknown to Marisa. In the beginning he kindled nobility in her—a gratifying feeling of giving herself not only to him but to all of those around her, brimming with smiles, affection, understanding. No setback, no disturbance affected the happiness of being in love, which protected her against everything with a cloak of light at once earthly and sacred. Her body, more concrete than ever, with new machinations, longed for the physical presence and touch of Marco. Her heart, lined with complex, pure layers, acquired an ethereal quality. Sometimes the simpler things were the most complex.

But not now. Now her body muted and the complexity of her heart was no longer simple, weltering instead in layers of small and big abjections. She felt robbed of her own life and Marco, and from within her emerged pettiness and a jealousy whose intensity scared her, as well as that unexpected labyrinth of fantasies with another man. Was that what love did to people? It made them better and then worse? She had turned into something she detested: a grotesque being wallowing in a swamp surrounded by miasmas, where the asphyxiating air carried the smell of resentment and dead leaves.

The slow transformation had begun in Toronto. The generosity driving her to please and support Marco gradually degenerated into fear. Yes, it was for love that today she made efforts for him but also for fear of losing him. In her gestures there was no longer the flavor of romantic conquest day by day, only the insecurity in herself and in the future. It was still time for salvaging that woman dressed in light from her innermost. She would give Marco space, would give her soul to make him happy. And that's what she planned to tell him.

There were ten minutes left. Marisa dashed to the cabin to shower and change. Upon her arrival, she heard the water running in the bathroom. She tentatively raised her hand to knock on the door and gave up. Marisa felt strangely shy. Backing off to the closet, she took her time choosing her clothes.

Marco stepped out the bathroom with the towel tied around his waist. Marisa was picking a flowery dress in the closet and he used the opportunity to pull out his swim trunks from a shelf, along with shorts and a gray T-shirt.

"I will shower quickly and then we..." Marisa didn't finish the sentence, for he had already walked away without acknowledging her words.

She lingered there following his movements as he tossed the towel on the undone bed. Exercise had accentuated his muscles, and Marisa contemplated his profile—the firm outline of the thighs and the curve of the buttocks, the sex at rest, the narrow shape of the abdomen widening up to the chest. She noted the fine veins on the forearms when he finished getting dressed and buttoned the serge shorts, his hands agile and tanned, his expression distracted.

Marisa realized how much she loved that body and the touch of those hands, hands that recognized every inch of her and knew where, how and when. She turned away abruptly and entered the bathroom. After washing, Marisa put on a bikini and the dress, styling her hair with a side braid. She applied lipstick, aware of the futility of it. A layer of cosmetics and bright clothes wouldn't close the gap between them, yet she wanted Marco to find her pretty.

He watched the TV news and limited himself to glimpsing at her without a comment. They left the cabin in silence, Marco with a book in hand signaling he wasn't up to talk. In the elevator they encountered Robert and Eliana—he also in shorts and a turquoise T-shirt, she wrapped in a yellow sarong, both looking fatigued in contrast with their summer clothes. Perking up at the sight of Marco and Marisa, they invited them for breakfast and the four headed to the cafeteria.

It was eight o'clock and, despite the partying the night before, many passengers had woken up early, so hustling waiters trotted back and forth with trays of special orders. The smell of scrambled, eggs, bacon and pancakes prevailed in the room, and the passengers' buzz blended with the animated clinking of utensils. Now and again, laughs in unison erupted here and there. In the air lingered a general expectation for the costume ball that night, the last of the cruise.

Robert and Eliana showed dark circles under their eyes, and Marisa speculated if they had argued the previous night too. The conversation revolved around tourism in the Caribbean, a perfect topic for breakfast: as sunny and neutral as the islands of Saint Martin and Saint John. Next, they proceeded to the central pool and found vacant beach loungers in a farther spot. There they remained, until the midday heat made them retreat to the solarium pool on the bow to chill out in the shade of its hanging gardens.

With exotic columns and statues in tonalities of terra cotta, ebony and gold, the solarium invited leisure. While most passengers thronged the central pool or enjoyed the water slide, only three other couples have sought refuge under its vaulted glass ceiling. Eliana and Robert dozed off, Marco read. Marisa took a dip and sat alone in the hot tub. The conversation with Marco would have to wait.

Frustrated, she decided to fetch her book in the cabin. On Deck 10, though, she turned around and went down the stairs to Deck 6. Better to find some light read to distract herself. The desert library smelled of quietness and lavender with its chestnut furniture and the glass wall framing the seascape. Thankful for the solitude, Marisa approached the bookshelf lining the adjacent wall, and a book forgotten on a table sparked her interest. The yellow cover displayed the curious title 59 Seconds above the name of the author, Richard Wiseman. The tagline was irresistible: Change your life in under a minute.

Marisa leafed through the book, which offered a variety of practical tips based on neuroscience and psychology studies. According to the chapter about relationships, couples focused on the positive aspects of the relation and their partner had a higher probability of sticking together. It was even better if during the initial dating period each partner made a list of those positive aspects for three days in a row. That increased the chances of success in fifty percent.

An old news article came to mind. Marisa didn't recall the details, but researchers of Northwestern University had concluded that the simple act of writing a love letter every four months had this effect. The principle of listing positive aspects remained, and the letter didn't even need to be delivered to the partner. The important was to write it.

Marisa carried the book to the cabin like a talisman while thinking of what to write, and each thread of thought linked to another—admissions, justifications, flashbacks. In the cabin, she sat at the desk with the ship's letterheaded paper before her, pen prompted in her hand. There was so much Marisa wanted to say that she didn't know where to start. She hesitated. The pen alighted on the sheet and the words gushed, the firm trail of blue ink transforming the whiteness of the paper in an ocean.

My dear Marco...

I read in a book that we need to write a list of the positive things about our relationship and our partner in order to cultivate happiness together. And here I am writing...

I admire you immensely. Your intelligence, culture, determination, generosity. And your sense of humor, of course, I'll never forget the prank we pulled on the school director at that Japanese restaurant. Or the day you took onions disguised as apple candies to your uncle's country party.

Life with you has more color, Marco.

Do you remember our first kiss? It was raining and I was soaking and my textbooks fell on the floor. I won't say it was the happiest day of my life because I had many more with you. Your presence fills me with light and a part of me died when we were apart. And it relived when you came back to brighten my days.

I've never loved this way or felt this close to anyone as I feel to you. I got lost along the path and was unable to understand you. Please, forgive me. I promise from now on our life will be different. I will be different.

There's so much I long to tell you. I don't want this distance between us anymore.

You are my sun.

Love,

Mari

The rest she would deliver face to face, looking into his eyes, caressing his face. Marisa reread what she had written, and her heart beat relieved. Then it faltered for an instant. Before doubt reached it, Marisa folded the sheet and slipped it into the envelope. 

___________________________

Will the letter work...? A-ha!