
"Cheers!" I clink my Fanta soda water against Jim's beer bottle. "To a very long way. Though I expected no less of you. I remember thinking, the first time I saw you... Here is a man who will one day voluntarily order spinach pizza in Bali for me and his unborn child. I'd better snap him up fast. Big hair, be damned."
Jim laughs. His hair is no longer big, in spite of the best efforts of southeast Asia's humidity, and we knew each other for a very long time before we became more than friends.
"And wholemeal crust. Don't forget the wholemeal crust." Jim serves me a slice of pizza. "Which does look like whole wheat." We'd debated this, does wholemeal mean whole wheat, and concluded it was likely that or grubs, but definitely something we could view as healthy.
As we make yummy noises over our shared lunch and discuss our plans for the afternoon (V: Another massage? I'm shocked! J: Another nap? I'm shocked!), my attention wanders to our fellow diners, two bronzed Caucausian women discussing the menu animatedly with their hands. Avoiding my gaze are pale blue eyes, alive with laugh lines, set in a face rugged with outdoor fun; staring openly is a bare back, below a head wild with dirty blonde dreadlocks, bound messily in a batik-patterned scrunchy.
These two could easily be in Madison, window shopping at the head shops on State Street or sipping a beer on the union terrace. And they'd be right at home at a ski resort in the mountains of Colorado. Not Vail, of course, or even Steamboat really, but they would flirt with snowboarders on the lifts at A Basin, and they would savor the springtime sunshine at a tailgate party in Mary Jane's Utah Junction parking lot.


Blinking up at Bali's hot afternoon sun, I squeeze Jim's hand. We've come a long way, baby.
venitha
Jim and I spent six glorious days in Ubud, Bali, in December.