Free Becoming Mona Lisa by Holden Robinson

that?” I asked, pointing out the window.
    “Yeah. I think you have poop in your hair.”
    “Oh, my God!!!” I said, standing up suddenly. “Do I?”
    “It's supposed to be good luck,” he said, positioning me under the half-busted light fixture.
    “Is there bird poop on me?” I whined.
    “Yeah.”
    “Gross, gross, gross!! I gotta get it out,” I said, running for the bathroom.
    “Start the shower,” Tom yelled from down the hall.
    “I think I'm okay,” I said, having found nothing in my hair resembling bird goo.
    “I want to take a shower,” Tom said.
    He was directly behind me and I faced him. “Right now?” I asked.
    “Yes. Right now. With you, Mona. I'd like to take my naked wife into the shower with me.”
    Sweet Jesus.
    I'd taken care of the pedicure, but when had I last shaved my legs? Last week? Last month? Last summer?
    Okay, I'm good. I shaved yesterday as part of my spectacular makeover.
    Tom stood in the doorway in his boxer shorts. He was nicely built, with a trim body he sustained, despite his consumption of Little Debbie's in anything but moderation. I touched him, placing my hand on his chest, and he inhaled sharply. “Five years is a long time,” he whispered, and I sighed. “I'd like to make love to my wife.”
    “In here?” I asked, and he looked around and chuckled.
    “Sheesh. Care to accompany me to our bedroom?” he asked, and I felt myself wobble. There it was, the fear again. “Mona? Are you all right?”
    “I'm scared, Tom.”
    “Honey?” he said, in a soft voice.
    “Yeah?” I whispered.
    “I'm scared, too.” I relaxed almost instantly, and slid effortlessly into my husband's arms. There was none of the frantic haste of the night before, and we stood in the hallway, on the yellow shag carpeting, clinging to each other.
    “I feel a little lost,” I admitted, and Tom pulled me closer.
    “Maybe you're in the bedroom,” Tom said, and I smiled at him. He was so typically male. “Let's go look,” he said.
    I hesitated. “Don't be afraid of me, Mona.”
    He was so gentle, he took my breath away, and when he reached for me again, I fell against him. He led me to our bedroom. The shades were closed, the curtains drawn. A single candle burned on the nightstand.
    I smelled roses, and as I followed him to the bed, something crunched beneath my feet.
    “What is that?” I asked.
    “Rose petals,” he said.
    “Where did you get rose petals?”
    “From a bag of Ida's potpourri,” he said, and I laughed until my sides ached. I had to give the man credit, he was trying.
    Tom sat beside me. For a moment, we said nothing. The furnace hummed, the house creaked, but we remained silent as we considered the magnitude of the moment.
    “ This is a new beginning, Mona.”
    “ I know,” I whispered, feeling the tentacles of fear reach for me once more.
    “ We have to start again. It's the only way.”
    “ Okay.”
    My husband stood and reached for my hand. I stood before him.
    “ I'm Tom Siggs,” he said, and I smiled.
    “ Mona Lisa Harrison,” I replied.
    “ I love you,” my husband whispered.
    “ We just met,” I said.
    “ I know.”
    “ I love you, too,” I whispered, sitting beside him on our bed. He leaned toward me, and I could almost see him in the flickering light. He pressed his lips to mine, and gently kissed me. I kissed him back, softly at first, then with a passion that made my heart race, reminiscent of the first time his lips had met mine.
    From the first moment, I'd known.
    We both had.
    This was the boy who was made for me, the girl born to love only him. How had we forgotten?
    His lips left mine and he gently pulled away.
    “ Hi,” he whispered, and I felt electricity in the room, the powerful pull of uninhibited intimacy.
    Tom reached for me again, and gently undressed me. It should have felt odd to be standing naked in the candlelight with this man I'd just met.
    It didn't.
    It felt familiar, and incredibly lonely, all at once.
    It was like