Our last night on the island was festive.
We lit candles, put on some nice music and cracked open a decent bottle of wine we’d stumbled on at El Encanto, our favorite neighborhood colmado.
Michael threw some steaks on the grill. I steamed broccoli and made a salad with some endive we’d picked up at Superdescuentos Morales (the biggest grocery story on the island, where you literally never knew what you’d find in stock), crumbled blue cheese and a bag of nuts we’d bought in the airport on our way down.
After dinner we took our wine glasses and wandered through the house, half-inspecting, half-just-enjoying.
“Ever think about the first time we walked in this place?” I asked.
“All the time. That’s why I haven’t slept a wink in fourteen months.”
I nodded. “It was grim.”
“And yet we saw its potential.”
“Or…” I said, taking a swig of wine, “we went stark raving mad at precisely the same moment.”
“Sounds more likely.”
I wiped an imaginary speck of dust off a tabletop.
“Right. Let’s eat.”
We stripped the bed the next morning and piled the sheets on the bathroom floor along with our dirty towels.
We set out scented candles and laid placemats on the table along with cloth napkins.
We took a last walk through the house.
“It looks perfect,” I cooed.
Famous last words.