A lava lamp. Candles of different scents. Blankets on the floor. Books about kama sutra. Cosmopolitan magazines.

She walks across wood planks naked with two martinis in her hands. She has a green olive between her lips. We kiss and I take it from her.

Lying on the floor, listening to Miles Davis. Holding hands, intertwined, looking at each other like we did forty-seven years ago when our bodies didn’t fail us. The ceiling fan twirls above.

And I say to her, I still love you. She kisses me. Runs her fingers through my hair, looks me in the eyes, and says, Happy Anniversary.