"I' m ready," she tells me. I scoop her off the chair and carry her in my arms into the warm and clear surf. She kisses me on the neck and says to me," you didn' t have to do it."
She is referring to our wedding yesterday.
I dragged her into the civil registry office in Can cú n and I told the guy in charge that we wanted to get married. Debbie gasped when I said that.
"Señor," said the man. "This is not Las Vegas. Getting a divorce in Mé jico is not easy and it can take a longtime to go through the courts."
"We are not planning on getting a divorce," I said, and I meant it. Debbie just squeezed my arm. A cop and a clerk acted as witnesses to our impromptu wedding and now we have a Mexican marriage certificate hanging on the wall of our room, and it is signed, dated, sealed and as good as anything done in the States. I will see to it when I get back to Denver.
I' m now waist deep into the ocean and I let Debbie down. She stands next to me on her one good leg and puts her arm around my ample soft waist. I put mine over her narrow shoulders. The waves crash against us but united we stand against their foaming power.
It took us over twenty years to be back, but here we are. At the crossroad we met and now we walk the same path.
