Their first Christmas morning in Hawaii, Michael stood at the kitchen window to watch his wife come in from her morning swim. It was a strange sight, Jenna in her swimsuit on this day that, every year before, he’d spent bundled up in pajamas in front of the wood stove back home, but strange—different—was why they’d moved her, after all. And though the swimsuit wasn’t red and she was anything but forbidden fruit, the whole scene made him think of Clark Griswold in Christmas Vacation. This made him smile, this memory, of Griswold oogling a pretty young thing in his mind’s eye while a tiny tot with her eyes all aglow crept up behind him. But then Michael thought of something else, and he stopped smiling.
His thought? It was this: theirs wasn’t the only bungalow that looked out over the cove, and there were plenty of windows for plenty of shady old men to hide behind as they undressed his wife with their eyes.
She raised an eyebrow as he ran out to greet her, shirtless and in his boxers, his one remaining roll of baby fat jiggling as he came, but she didn’t question him as he put his arm around her and she was too busy resting her head on his shoulder to notice his eyes darting from one window to the next as they made their way back inside.