“Think of all the time we’ll have to write,” you said.
We’d done the math. Between us, we figured we could live three years, maybe four: cover the rent on the cottage in Adamstown, plus any taxes, and of course, the food.
When the first cargo ship arrived from New Zealand, we’d laughed as we hauled the ridiculous quantities back home in the golf cart: ten pounds of rice, twelve pounds of beans, and of course the coffee.
The coffee ran out first. The garden washed away in a February monsoon, and nothing grew in the endless blistering drought that followed.
“Next ship will be here in eighteen days,” you said.
That is what you said about the April ship. And the July.
This time, I don’t answer. I just look at your haunch and think—and not for the first time—that it is very meaty. Very meaty indeed.
Apologies to my hubby J Hardy Carroll. I was inspired by my desire for more writing time, and this article: Why nobody will move to Pitcairn the Pacific Island with Free Land.